


Not Particularly Crazy

by Baileys



Category: White Collar
Genre: As cannon as possible with White Collar, Crimes & Criminals, Drama, Early season but Kate's definately dead, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Family Dynamics, Family Feels, Father-Son Relationship, Friendship, Gen, Hugs, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Running Away, Tears, Trust Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-16
Updated: 2018-10-25
Packaged: 2018-12-30 14:49:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 64,907
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12111069
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Baileys/pseuds/Baileys
Summary: Video evidence places Neal at the scene of a murder and the US Marshals want him in Rikers until he can stand trial.   Peter's having none of it and sets out, with the help of the team to prove his innocence.  Meanwhile Neal has to reconcile his past self with his present if he's going to survive any of this.  Set mid season 2. *COMPLETE*





	1. Chapter 1

The sun was shining, humid summer air warm against his skin, yet still he shivered. Feeling hollow, edges sharp and biting, a numbness consuming him from the inside out. Salty spray carried on the breeze from the East River splashed his face and dampened his clothes as he walked the Esplanade. It's been too long since he's seen the ocean, been on a beach, felt the sand between his toes or listened to the rhythm of the waves beat against a rocky shore. With a smile teasing his lips he remembers being chased around Europe. Recalls how beautiful Greece is in the summer, how fresh Paris in spring and the tranquillity of Budapest in the fall. Places and times when things seemed just…  _right._

"Neal? Neal, open your eyes."

Neal slowed, turned with a smirk and one raised eyebrow, prepared to tell Peter that his eyes are indeed open, but wherever his friend was hiding in this expanse of white and water Neal couldn't see.

"Peter?"

For no reason Neal could fathom the frigid hollowness in his stomach started to ache. Shielding his eyes from the bright hot sun, his untroubled bemusement turned to dismay, sobering at not finding his friend. Acknowledging the absence stung, realising he had no idea where Peter was even more so. Peter's name falling from suddenly dry lips, Neal's world tilted. Sand, sun and water merged into one, spinning around and around. Neal wanted Peter, needed him here with him now more than Neal's needed anyone ever. The empty feeling growing colder and colder, white fading to black in an eclipse worthy move. Drowning in darkness, cold seeping out and freezing the tiny hairs on his arms despite the heat surrounding him. He feels brittle and not in control. Seeking refuge in the solid sand dusted concrete beneath his feet Neal drops to the floor, but his hands meet only air. He falls, his momentum too great, too quick to stop.

"Neal! Neal!"

Heart racing, fear a solid thing in his throat, the scream of his name coincides with a smack to his stomach. Ripped from the dizzying darkness there's no warmth, the air is crisp and icy, a forceful wind scolding his face, freezing solid the blood in his veins. There's shouting. People shouting at him and about him. Hands on his arms, on his legs - too many for one person, hands all over him, grabbing him, touching him where stranger's hands should not touch-

Neal finds his strength through his terror and fights for all he's worth. "Get off me!"

He pushes and pulls but the hands, they keep coming, grabbing and pinning him to the frigid, hard, uneven floor beneath him. Water seeps into his clothes, every inch damp and clinging to his equally damp body. He's rolled over, pushed face down into gravel. Neal cries out, cheeks burning as skin is ripped off bone, a slow trickle of fresh red blood running into his mouth. Conceding his own physical limits, in one last grab at freedom Neal changes tactics and draws in a deep breath. No matter what mess he gets into, no matter how frustrating, no matter how many times he withholds or misdirects, when Neal's lost in the darkness without any idea of what's happening, Peter always knows where to find him.

Throat tight, eyes squeezed shut, Neal screams for Peter with everything he's got.

And Peter screams back.

"GET THE FUCK OFF HIM!"

The enraged roar following his own cry sends the commotion surrounding him instantly mute. So quiet Neal can isolate the sound of his own frantic breathing over the hum of traffic in the distance. He lies lifeless, staring towards the dull grey-black sky, the hands having snatched away as suddenly and violently as they'd tried to hang on. Neal thought he'd feel relief, but instead the sudden absence of touch and sound leaves him bereft of a tether, his body light and liable to float away at any minute.

Sitting bolt upright, chest heaving, eyes searching but finding no one familiar in the dull dark night, fear and desperation take over. He doesn't want to float away, he wants to be found, wants to be caught when he falls-

"PETER!"

"Hey!" Peter's tense face suddenly fills his vision, one warm hand cupping his least damaged cheek. "Hey," softer this time, "I'm here. It's okay. I'm here, look at me Neal. Neal, look at me."

Neal does as he's told for once, without qualm or mischief and looks, really looks. "You're here."

Peter's there, tired but there, his eyes sunken, red where white should be. He looks like crap and Neal tells him so, in a sigh and a hiccupping giggle as he's lifted from the cold, wet floor with a warm hand in his hair, another slipping around his back. Doesn't think too much of it when instead of scowling and yelling Peter keeps pulling him forward, pressing his face suddenly and indelicately into one shoulder, the throbbing sting of the raw exposed flesh on his cheek rubbing against the poly-cotton shirt causing a whimper to break free.

"We'll fix this," Neal feels Peter's warm breath in his wind matted and sea ravaged hair.

Snaking trembling hands under the warm FBI windbreaker Neal considers he doesn't know what Peter wants to fix. Maybe it's the bruises sure to be marring his usually blemish free skin, maybe the cold that's now so ingrained in his bones even his teeth are chattering. Maybe it's something much bigger, like Neal himself.

He nods for forms sake, silent tears joining the blood staining Peter's collar. Peeking out from the cover of his rescuers coat he can see the legs of several people moving back and forth, the rain falling, creating deeper puddles on what is now very clearly a road, not the esplanade as he first thought. There's an ambulance with its lights flashing, but no siren and the din of steadily moving traffic coming from somewhere in the distance. Two figures in jumps suits and hi-vis jackets approach and Neal clings tighter, refusing to leave the safe-haven he's found and never wants to leave.

A squeeze and a sigh trickles down from above, "we will fix this."

…

Peter rolls over, the buzzing of his cell penetrating the calm nothingness of his sleep. "Burke"

He hadn't bothered opening his eyes, not until the cool detached tone of the operator on the other end informs him tracking anklet 9304-alpha has breached his radius. Marshalls have been despatched and on route to the current location.

"Neal's running?" Peter shoots up in bed, hand to his forehead as if the very thought of Neal gave him an instant headache.

The woman despatcher casually responds to his question in the affirmative and asks with distinct disinterest if he will be attending the scene. Peter informs her he'll be right there and hangs up without getting the address of where  _there_  is.

Peter sighs, running a hand over his face and hair. In the darkness he turns to tell El not to worry and go back to sleep, before belatedly realising the other side of the bed is cold and undisturbed. El was staying over at her event upstate due to the ice storm closing the interstate. Trust Caffrey to make a nuisance of himself tonight of all nights. Peter sighs again, tosses back the covers and proceeds to get dressed, ready for what he predicts is going to be a very long day at work.

Loading up Neal's tracking data on the Taurus' on-board computer is a cinch. Peter has it pre-programmed into his satnav and is on his way within minutes of leaving the house. It's still a live signal at least, which means still in one piece and hopefully attached to its owner. He turns onto Trinity Park, heading for the Brooklyn Bridge reciting his lecture in his head only to be disturbed by his cell ringing and breaking his concentration.

"I'm on my way." Checking the clock and estimating arrival time, "10 minutes max."

"Well you better hurry." Jones' voice vibrates over the speakers.

Peter frowns at the dash. "What's going on? Neal okay?"

"I have no idea. I'll do what I can to keep the Marshalls back but…" silence fills the car, only the empty buzz of the speaker letting him know they're still connected. "- he needs you Peter." The call ends abruptly in a strung-out beep and crackle of static.

Arriving at the scene, Peter pulls up as close as he can get to the closed off bridge. Flashing his badge to get passed the crime scene tape, a chill running through him, dread filling his heart and head Peter jogs through the crowd of Marshalls and circles around one side. Spying Jones standing close to the railing Peter follows his line of sight upwards and sees what has everyone's rapt attention.

"Hey," Jones grabs his arm, bodily holds him back from breaching the Marshal ordered perimeter when confusion and desperation to just do  _something_  set in. "Peter, Peter calm down." The words aren't cold, they're loud and warm and full of understanding.

Peter stills, "Yeah, okay" he nods at Jones, patting his agents shoulder because his hands are at a loss for something to do. "I'm good."

Heart racing, body shaking with adrenaline he demands answers, wants to know what the hell is going on and why Neal's standing on the wrong side the of the Brooklyn Bridge, a bridge outside of his radius, unless he's travelling to Peter's house.

"We don't know yet, he hasn't said a word since we got here," Jones scans the array of armed men.

Peter pushes his way through the marshals, calmly this time. He stops at the railing, gives his best "Hey buddy," in imitation of Neal high as a kite at the Howser Clinic.

Chilled fingers clasp the icy railing, the bite of cold wet metal stealing his breath away. Looking down all is dark. The icy water flowing beneath them a death sentence even without a 100-foot fall preceding it.

"Burke the crisis negotiator is on her way-"

Peter bats the air in the general direction of the marshal who spoke. Keeping his gaze fixed on Neal teetering on the wrong side of the ledge for fear just looking away will end everything in the worst conceivable way.

"Neal?" Peter calls out, fighting the instinct to grab his arm and pull him to safety.

Neal turns, just his head. His toes stay pointed outward, like he knows if they shift even an inch on the ice coated lip that would spell the end. Peter gazes back at the crowd of law officials, seeking out Jones. He passes a message, keeping his voice low, letting it carry on the breeze blowing towards them from the freezing water below.

"Lower your guns." Jones tells the marshal in charge.

The unit leader smirks but doesn't argue. Peter releases a heavy sigh as one by one the marshals lose their aim, satisfied even they can see there's no need to be pointing guns at a guy who's clearly unarmed and not a threat to anyone but himself.

Now for the hard part. Neal's outside the safety barrier, standing on a ledge no wider than a dollar bill, in what looks to be his pyjamas. Where the fuck does he start?

"Neal, I don't know what's going on in that head of yours but I need you step back onto this side with me okay?"

Neal doesn't answer, doesn't even look like he heard. Leaning further over the railing Peter tries to get a closer look at his face. He's prepared for tears, but what he finds is a smile.

"Neal, open your eyes." Peter inches closer, senses the marshals behind tense up. "Neal, open your eyes, look at me." Peter takes another step closer, he's directly behind him now. "Please."

Neal shivers, his hands reaching out, touching nothing but air-

What happens next is a blur of action and noise. Neal calls out to him, but falls forward, Peter shouts and in panic wraps both arms around the thin waist. The ledge is slick and his feet slip, legs going out from under him. Neal's still falling and Peter's still holding. Other hands latch on to the now fighting body, together they pull him over the railing and hit the floor in an uncoordinated heap. Neal pushing and kicking at anyone and everyone, Peter is overpowered and forced out of the way. The marshals don't bother trying to talk him down, they treat him like an animal, a highly distressed and uncooperative animal. Four of them, four much bigger, much stronger men each grab a hold of a part of Neal's body and flip him over, pinning him face down on the cold wet concrete of the bridges footpath, Neal fighting them every step. One of the marshals drops a knee onto Neal's back, pushing the kid's face into the dirt with one hand, going for his cuffs with another. Peter charges forward to put an end to it but one of the four breaks his hold and transfers it to him, forcible blocking his path. He shouts at the others to let him go but the plea lands on deaf ears. It's not until the marshal who went for his cuffs yanks Neal's arms back, revealing the torn flesh and bleeding graze on his cheek as well as eliciting a painful cry that Peter reaches melting point.

Snatching his arms out of the hold of the marshal restraining him Peter charges forward. "LET HIM GO!" He pushes none too gently between two armed on lookers, "GET THE FUCK OFF HIM!"

Silent drops over them, the chaos of moments before gone in an instant. Even Neal stops fighting, frozen on the ground, chest heaving, a look of panic filling his usually sharp and sparkling blue eyes. Peter makes his ire clearer by ordering anyone not FBI to step the hell back and drops to the floor the second a distressed  _'Peter!'_  breaks from Neal's lips.

"Hey, hey, I'm here" he breaths, kneeling next to the shivering and panting body of the kid usually the embodiment of cool when faced with arrest. "Shh," Peter whispers softly and helps him up, "It's okay." Gripping one shoulder from the front he captures the unmarked cheek with his free hand, angling the kids chin up into the nearest street light. "Look at me Neal, look at me."

Neal does just that. Eyes moving from their focus on the night sky to meet Peter's as if it were always that easy to do as he's told. Neal tells him he looks like hell and Peter doesn't, can't hold back. He pulls, fast and fierce, hugging Neal to his chest, carding a hand roughly through his damp and dirty hair, shielding him under his coat as best he can from the watchful stares of the marshals.

Peter swallows back tears, the image of Neal, who he's sure would never do what it looked like he was doing, wars with the surreal reality of the fact he had tried to do just that. "We'll fix this," he breaths in the scent of Neal's shampoo, mixed with the gritty algae aroma of the sea spray being carried on the wind.

There's so little reaction from Neal that Peter jumps when slender arms eventually move and reach under his jacket, cold hands brushing against his thin shirt underneath to grab fistfuls of creased linen. Peter looks up at Jones guiding the EMTs their way, feels Neal shaking against him, pressing himself closer.

"We  _will_  fix this."


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all comments and kudos!

"Where were you going?"

"I told you." Neal yawns and slumps in his seat, hiding his trembling hands underneath the table and eyeing the two-way mirror. "I wasn't going anywhere."

He turns back to the US marshal, aptly named Marshall (he can't wait to tell Mozzie) and gives him the trademark Caffrey smile, teeth and all.

"Finding you outside your radius suggests otherwise." Marshal Marshall says with inflated self-assuredness. The kind bestowed on every government agent he's ever met, Peter included.

Thoughts of Peter have the smile faltering, worried eyes snapping back to the mirror.

"He's not there you know." Marshal Marshall grins, his eyes sparkling with delight.

Neal bites his lip, forcing eye contact while heat warms his cheeks.

"You're alone here Caffrey, nobody gives a damn about you," the grin expands, exposing nicotine stained teeth in the stout round face. "You might as well come clean and tell me everything."

"Alright knock it off." Peter bursts into the room.

The marshal reels back slowly, taking with him the smell of stale coffee mixed with overused pharmacy brand cologne, and Neal can't be anything but grateful.

"Hey Peter." He sings brightly, fixing his shit-eating grin on the marshal currently kicking himself under the table.

"I gave you permission to interview not interrogate." Peter comes to a stop at Neal's side, giving his shoulder a quick squeeze.

The instant that contacts made, all the pent-up anxiety drains right out of him. Despite the relief that comes part and parcel of his favourite FBI agent's protection, he's a little ashamed that he  _needs_  Peter in this way. More than a little actually, he's ashamed, embarrassed, hell he's downright  _mortified!_  Something is definitely wrong in his world when a mediocre marshal can reduce him to the emotional equivalent of a six-year-old. Which is an insult to most six-year-olds when he thinks about it.

While he focuses on regulating his breathing and trying not to burst into tears, the grownups continue to talk around him.

"Burke, you need to let us handle this." Marshal Marshall leans back, puffing out his chest.

"I've seen how you've handled things for the last hour, I'm not impressed." Peter shoots back, hand dropping away.

"You don't need to be." Marshall rises, his full height landing him an inch over Peter, both now towering over Neal who feels incredibly small sitting trapped between them. A feeling that only solidifies his six-year-old persona. "I'm doing this here in your office Burke as a courtesy, could just as easily skip to the part I throw this little bastard back in jail and get it done with."

Peter slams his free hand down on the interrogation room table, leaning fully into the marshal's personal space who's forced to step back. At the sudden and very loud whack of palm impacting table Neal flinches, whole body jerking followed swiftly by the high-pitched scraping of metal chair legs against the hard floor. Peter keeps his patented pissed-off FBI Agent stare fixed firmly on the frustrated marshal, but the hand that's suddenly pressed into the small of his back tells Neal Peter most definitely didn't miss  _that_ overreaction.

"Neal, we're leaving."

His smile is brittle against his teeth as he attempts to stand, for once wanting nothing more than to do as Peter tells him for a change.

"He goes when I say he does." Marshal Marshall reaches out a hand as if to push him back down.

Peter's arm gets in the way. "Neal's a ward of the state under my supervision."

"He's a prisoner wearing a tracking anklet monitored by the Marshals service."

Neal shifts restlessly, watching the verbal sparring like some surreal game of ping pong that featured him as the flimsy little white ball.

"You take him Burke," Dickerson growls, looking directly at Neal, like a predator, like he's seeing through his tenuous grin to the unstable reality beneath. "And I'm reporting you to your superior."

"Dickerson isn't it?" The hand that squeezed Neal's shoulder only moments ago reconnects. Grip firmer and not letting go.

"Marshal Dickerson."

 _'Marshal Marshall Dickerson'_ Neal internally corrects remembering the man's badge flashing back at the hospital the hospital, guessing by the weary hostility  _Marshall_ isn't unaccustomed to jibes on the clash of his name and unfortunate profession.

"We're leaving," Peter reaffirms with another squeeze, making it clear the words are to reassure him over informing marshal Marshall of the obvious.

Taking the comfort offered Neal wonders if Peter's always had this power to read him or if it's something gained over time, after prolonged exposure. There isn't a day goes by since this deal began that Peter doesn't see him, doesn't connect with him physically in some way. Peter knows being left alone is when the walls start to close in, the reality of his life a pressure Neal is sometimes ill equipped to handle. Even on weekends he checks in, makes sure he isn't up to no good. Some days Neal likes to pretend he's up to no good just to get Peter's attention. Plans fake heists, acts shifty around the office dropping little clues. It keeps things fresh and, somewhere down a deep dark corridor in Neal's criminal little mind, there's the presumption – or is it fear? – that if Neal stopped being bad that Peter would stop seeing him. If Neal was good and kept being good, Peter wouldn't feel the need to check on his anklet or bring him to his house for dinner. He'd trust Neal to be good and leave him alone, and alone for Neal is when the crazy starts.

"I mean it Burke," Dickerson holds up his phone. "One call is all it'll take."

"Go ahead." Peter stares marshal Marshall down with the arrogance of a king in his castle.

Neal, already half-way to the door, watches on, but despite the tense and confusing situation a yawn escapes, resulting in breaking some of the tension. He makes no apology. It's too late to save face and frankly he's bone tired, plus the bright lights are hurting his eyes. Peter's sixth sense is on fire it seems, because without breaking from his staring contest he steps in front, shielding Neal not only from the marshal, but the bright florescent tube shinning down on him.

"Look, we're all on the same side." Peter turns compliant.

"Not what it looks like from here." Marshall is eyeing Neal with a disgruntled sneer. "He needs to answer the question."

Neal blinks, internally panicked that he honest and truly can't. On the outside that fear has him curving his lips upward once again. Peter opens his mouth before the marshal can, deflects the blow, only this time he's not shouting, he's fishing. Trying to get him to give up what information he's trying so desperately to get out of Neal first.

Neal relaxes, always having found it fun to watch Peter work. His method of interrogation differs from the US marshal's. If Peter wants to know something he'll pretend to be your friend, he'll talk to you and he's so calm, so - so nice that you'll have given all your secrets away without ever realising. Before the anklet, when it was Neal on the receiving end of those finely-honed skills, he always found himself wanting to talk back. He liked the attention. Neal found innovative ways to get Peter Burke's attention without incriminating himself before prison and now he does the same after, only he doesn't have to make do with phone calls or notes in birthday cards anymore. He can talk to Peter whenever he wants, visit him whenever he wants. Peter is his friend, he isn't pretending anymore. So why is Neal still pretending to smile?

"Bottom line, until proven otherwise Neal's a witness at best and you will treat him as such, do you understand?"

Neal blinks, breaking out from his self-imposed bubble by the sudden switch of Peter's tone back to territorial and defensive.

"Perfectly." Marshal Marshall bears his teeth, creating a hissing noise when he calls Peter, " _Agent Burke._ "

Peter doesn't react. "Neal." Hand on hip, he gives Neal the patented White Collar two finger point. "Unless you have any other questions for my C.I.?" He directs the question that really isn't to Marshall once Neal's at his side.

The big man growls, deep in the back of his throat and steps closer to Peter using his extra inch in height to full advantage. Neal is standing on shaky legs, placing himself slightly behind Peter, so close Peter can probably feel the heat radiating off his fevered body like a furnace. His smile is back, as brittle as before, but an adequate barrier for the occasion as he holds his own and faces off against who he sees, who he has always seen, as his arch enemy. Peter joins Neal in grinning like an idiot if only to show a united front. It works, the marshal backs off, eyes dark, brow lowered with a sneer that could cut glass. It's by no means over, but they've won this round.

The second colossus' back is out the door Neal turns to him, his grin solidified in honest relief. Peter's drops the second the door slams shut.

"Alright you will tell me everything, and I swear Neal you leave even a second out I will personally drive you out to Rikers and drop you off like a sack of kittens into a river."

Neal, face impassive, doesn't even flinch this time. "That's animal cruelty Peter."

"Do you have ANY idea what kind of strings I had to pull to keep you here? With me?" Peter snaps, face getting redder and angrier with each syllable."

"Okay, okay I'm sorry," Neal shrinks back, taking to staring at his shoeless feet because having Peter mad at him and not knowing why was making it very hard to keep up any kind of front. "Peter I- " but the words die on his tongue.

Peter continues to lecture, demanding answers to questions Neal doesn't have. The comfort he felt only moments ago evaporating by the second. He can't say anything in his defence because he has no idea what's going on, no idea why the US marshals are interrogating him or why Peter is so mad. Before he can stop it, a sniffle escapes – mortified wasn't even a strong enough word now, completely and utterly humiliated fit better. His hands start to tremble, an instinctive reaction to the tears gathering and threatening to fall, but no less embarrassing given the circumstances. Especially with god knows who else from White Collar watching on the other side of the glass. He's so tired it physically hurts to stand up, he just wants to go home.

"Hey," Peter jostles him, hands gripping his forearms and not letting go. "I'm sorry. I said we'll fix this and I meant it."

"Peter, I don't know what this is to fix." And God Peter had to believe him otherwise he was toast.

"Yeah," Peter looks away, through the two-way glass, "I'm getting that."

Neal follows his gaze, wraps his arms around his middle when he catches sight of his reflection, as if he can hide the fact he's been, quite literally, dragged into White Collar in hospital scrubs. "Peter?" he begs, leaning into the one man Neal trusts to right his world every time it goes sideways.

"Okay," Peter sighs, taking pity, "but not here."

...

"Why am I here? It's really late." Neal looks wide eyed to Peter when they pull up outside the familiar house on DeKalb Avenue.

"When I said I pulled strings to keep you with me, I meant  _with me_. As in 'at all times'." Fear and confusion stare back at him through glassy blue eyes. Peter gets out the car, instructing Neal to do the same. "The marshals wanted you back in your old cell. This is the best I could do under the circumstances."

"They can't do that!" Neal slams the car door shut.

Peter sighs, breathing deep through his nose to the count of ten. Back outside the interrogation room, he stayed behind the glass for as long as he could, for a long as it took Hughes to leave the room to make a phone call. The man was annoyed at being dragged into work before 6am, as well he should be, but Peter was frustrated for an entirely different reason. He couldn't get the image of Neal on that ledge, of Neal being there and then suddenly not, out of his head. Waiting for Neal to be checked over in the hospital Peter had dozed off several times. Each time he dreamed, replaying the mornings events over and over, only difference was each time Neal took that step Peter didn't catch him. Neal fell, and Peter wasn't sat in the ER waiting for release papers. He was in the morgue, waiting to officially identify the body they'd dragged from the river, broken, bruised and unrecognisable as his friend.

"Yes Neal, they can." Peter eventually shoots back, glaring at him over the hood. Neal standing in the road, even if he is right by the car, is making him nervous and it takes everything he has left in him to stop from marching around the Taurus to drag Neal into the house. "Innocent until proven guilty is for innocent people. You're a convicted felon. They can drag your ass back to that hell hole whenever they please with sufficient cause."

Neal shakes his head, but thankfully makes his way towards Peter and onto the side walk. "They don't have that."

Peter sighs – loudly - and opens his mouth to set him straight about why, marshals or no, Peter wouldn't even think about leaving him alone right now, but thinks better of it. "I need you to trust me, okay? This is for the best."

"But-"

"Jones got your things from June." He answers before Neal can ask, climbing the steps towards his front door. "She knows you're okay and that you'll be staying with me."

"What about-"

"Elizabeth contacted Mozzie." Peter sighs again, the street really wasn't the place for any of this. The day had been long, the storm had lingered and not really left, he was freezing just standing here. "Look she made it home this afternoon but has a flight out tomorrow to some conference thing for the weekend so it'll be just you and me for a couple of days, it'll be fun."

The sorrowful look Neal gives him, eyes cast downward, one hand cut across his mouth hiding the lip biting sure to be going on doesn't inspire hope that's any better, but Peter doesn't take it personally. El is a voice in his corner as far as Neal's concerned, someone to seek protection from when Peter's mad with him. When exactly they became Neal's parents he doesn't know, but here they are and here Neal is. A flimsy case file on his desk one minute, an actual human being cemented in his life the next.

Peter carefully stomps back down the ice coated steps, grabs Neal by the arm and leads the way inside, feeling they've provided enough entertainment for the neighbours for one night. El greets them by the door on her way up stairs, arms full of clean bedding she's no doubt taking to the guest bedroom where Neal will be sleeping until this mess is sorted out.

"I've made soup for dinner," she pauses upon their entrance, kissing Peter on the cheek, communicating more than just welcome home.

"Thanks, hon." Peter watches his wife double time it upstairs and is oh so grateful she has such good intuition, because she's back by his side in a flash.

"Are you boys ready to eat?"

At work Peter is a strong and capable leader, someone who gives out orders and makes the final decisions, but home is El's domain. Home is where El makes the final decisions. Not because she's power hungry or Peter's whipped, El has a confidence in handling personal matters which Peter feels he lacks. Now he's brought Neal home, this thing, whatever it is, it's personal and he's drowning in indecision.

"I'm not hungry." Neal answers her, dropping to the sofa in a boneless dejected heap.

El gives first Neal, then Peter the look. Her patented, narrowed eyed precision glare that says she's simultaneously worried and annoyed. Slumped on their couch, shoulders rounded, eyes wide and staring into space Neal's practically screaming I need a hug and she swoops in to provide, making it clear to Peter he's an idiot for not doing it first.

"Oh, Neal sweetie," Elizabeth settles next to him. "It'll be okay. Peter's going to make it okay, aren't you hon?"

She looks up at him, big blue eyes as clear as Neal's, staring at him in the same way Neal does when he wants something. The resemblance between his wife and the conman he chased for three years hadn't gone unnoticed, it just wasn't something Peter liked to think too much about. Especially when being thrown in his face like this.

"Hon, let's not make promises for me I may not be able to keep." Peter smiles nervously, rubbing an imaginary knot at the back of his neck.

"You said you'd fix this." Neal reminds him, words flat, lacking the usual Caffrey charm and flair.

Peter groans. He'd said that before knowing what he knows now. Before, when he thought the only issue they had to fix was Neal's unstable mind.

Giving in, Peter drops next to him on the opposite side to El, sandwiching Neal between them. "I did say  _we'd_  fixed this. But that can only happen if you tell me the truth."

A shrug and murmured okay is all that's offered, kid's in a full-on funk.

"The whole truth Neal." Peter closes his eyes and massages his temple to sooth away the forming headache. "Not your version or interpretation or a mind fuck of words. I mean it."

"And I get it alright," Neal jumps up, hitching the ill-fitting green scrubs he's still wearing back over his hips, "but I still have no idea what anyone is talking about!"

He shouts this at the wall. Keeping his back to them, body ridged, taking deep shuddering breaths that vibrate through his chest and throat before escaping in a tight gasp. Neal hates himself right now. It's clear in the taut lines of his back, the fists clasped tight at his sides. He may lie, cheat and steal, but Neal rarely loses his cool. He hates conflict as much as he hates violence and guns.

"I'm sorry," Neal swallows, words wet and whiney.

El gives Peter an indecisive look and squeezing her hand over his, quickly excuses herself to the kitchen. Peter waits, listening for the sound of bowls and glasses clinking together as they're pulled from high cupboards before rising from the sofa.

Ruffling the rumpled, gel-less hair, Peter gently turns Neal to face him. "Okay, I'm going to tell you what I know. Then you need to fill me in. Deal?"

Eyes to the floor Neal nods repeatedly without making a sound. "Can I change first?"

"Sure," Peter points, palm out toward the stairs. "Your things are in your room, I'll get some Advil for when you come back down. You're running a fever." He adds when Neal frowns.

There was bound to be some consequences to hanging out in the wet and freezing snow in the early hours of a New York December morning. Considering what could have happened they're getting off lightly.

Entrusting himself completely to Peter's judgement, Neal makes his way up the stairs. Peter watches his slow climb and only when Neal disappears to the first floor does he let out the tense sigh he's been holding.


	3. Chapter 3

_"I still have no idea what anyone is talking about!"_

The words were out before he could stop them. Angry and desperate and completely humiliating. Shame heating his face Neal trudges upstairs, his outburst playing on loop in his mind. Reaching the guest bedroom, spying his bag exactly where Peter said it would be he's tempted to forgo striping himself of the itchy scrubs and hide under the covers until this all blows over. He's so tired even thinking is difficult, and frankly he doesn't get why. Despite being interrogated all afternoon into late evening, which is taxing but nothing he's not experienced before, he's done nothing but sleep recently. Even Mozzie commented he seemed unusually lethargic. The other night when he'd eventually succumbed, falling asleep mid-pour at the table, he'd unhelpfully suggested that the FBI were using sleep deprivation to control his mind. Neal told him it was probably just a cold.

"You okay?"

Neal blinks, turns to find Peter standing in the doorway looking worried. "Fine." He frowns.

"It's just you've been gone a while." Peter's gaze is assessing, the unasked questions plentiful.

"I was just…" What was he just?

Neal looks down at himself, he's not changed, not even opened his bag. The anxiety and tears from the interrogation room rise again and it's he can do to keep them at bay. Luckily Peter seems to understand what he needs before Neal does. Taking him in hand, too tired, too strung out to resist, Peter pushes him down on the bed and helps him change. First the top is removed with surprising efficiency, a loose t-shirt is pushed over his head, arms guided through sleeves one at a time before being pulled down to his waist. Next awkward hands untie the drawstring keeping the scrub pants up. Peter says nothing as he efficiently swaps them for cotton pyjama bottoms, which are pulled up by awkward hands and snapped into place. Neal feels hot and sick. Whatever this is, it's taken everything from him, every barrier he's ever had, every coping mechanism he's built up is lying in tatters on the floor. The Neal standing before Peter is wanting, open and raw. Shame and humiliation a distant concern.

Limbs aching, muscles the constancy of jelly, Peter guides Neal back down stairs and towards the sofa, where he slumps onto the cushions with all the coordination of a toddler in dire need of a nap.

"Where were you at 3am this morning?" Peter's voice, all business, breaks through his numb barrier, bringing him back to the here and now.

Neal laughs, then coughs, gagging on the fluids trying to make their escape. "Asleep, at June's." He runs both hands over his face and through his hair. "Check my anklet if you don't believe me."

"I did." Peter says without inflection, handing him the promised pills along with a glass of water and instruction to drink all of it. "And funny thing is, it has you at Columbus Circle."

"What?" Neal's head snaps up, voice a bare whisper. "No, I - Peter I wasn't there. Someone must have tampered with the data."

"That's been checked." Peter taps his anklet. "Confirmed to be the real deal. You were there Neal. They have you on camera passing the Pavilion hotel at 3:08am."

"But-"

Peter drops onto the cushion next to him. "Neal whatever you were doing I don't care, because I know you, I know you didn't do this."

"Do what Peter?!"

Peter drops the cool act, showing his true nerves for the first time. "There was a break in last night. A private collection was taken from a rare art gallery near Columbus."

"And you think I what? Took it? Hid a whole store's worth of art under my bed in the Pavilion?"

"I don't care about the art Neal." Peter turns away, shaking his head.

"Then what?"

"Neal, a girl was murdered." Peter waits a beat, looks Neal in the eye. "And as far as the US marshals are concerned, you're the prime suspect."

Neal can't breathe. Not only was he not where his tracker is apparently telling everyone he was last night, but he most certainly didn't commit a murder.

"Peter, you gotta believe me-"

"Neal, I do, I do." Peter grabs his shoulders, crushingly tight. "Which is why I've insisted they treat you as a witness until they have evidence otherwise. Your record speaks to you never resorting to violence and the judge agreed."

"You've been to a judge already?" Neal's eyes near pop out of his head, breathing noisy and erratic.

"The marshals wanted you in prison until the case is resolved. I got the judge to entrust you to me, but that only lasts so long as you cooperate and tell all you know, you had to have seen something Neal, you were there."

"But I wasn't!" Neal jumps to his feet. "At least I don't, I don't remember…"

"What?"

"Nothing."

"Neal!"

"I've been having weird dreams recently," Neal drifts, looking around the warm and welcoming living room as if seeing it for the first time. "Been really tired. It's nothing. There's video?" Neal, hands on head, turns back to the couch, to Peter, "and you've seen it?"

"Yeah." Peter nods sadly. "It doesn't show you committing the murder obviously, or this would be moot. Camera's pointing out on to the street from the lobby, but it's you outside the crime scene and your anklet data matches up. You were definitely there."

"So why don't I remember?"

Peter pauses, studies him. "That's what we're going to find out." Neal doesn't move, can't even breath. "But not tonight," he stands and slaps his back, the cowboy up hinted at but not said. "Tonight, we sleep."

As if waiting for her cue Elizabeth produces soup for them all, which due to the stress of the day - and night - Neal eats but can barely taste. Peter notices, of course, and so quickly relents to Neal's persistent pestering to tell him everything the FBI and marshals know. El's disapproving but doesn't interfere. When it's clear they're getting nowhere, Peter sends him to bed citing a busy day to come and plenty of questions to find answers to.

Lying awake in bed over an hour later, Neal turns under the sheets for the millionth time. Despite the tiredness he's been feeling all day, he can't relax enough to let his guard down. The last time he felt this restless Peter was closing in on him. The last time this scared was his first week in prison. When he was too afraid to close his eyes, afraid of who might come for him if he did.

He loves his apartment at June's, but being at the Burke's feels safe. Knowing Peter's just across the hall is usually enough to quell even the scariest nightmare, but tonight it's not working, and Neal is so bone tired he doesn't know how much longer he'll last if he doesn't get some sleep. Turning again, facing the window with his back to the door, Neal slams his eyes shut and wills sleep to just take him.

…

Peter can hear the rustling of covers in the room next door. The heavy sighs and frustrated growls Neal probably isn't aware he's making.

"You should go sit with him." Elizabeth's voice comes out of the darkness.

He thought she was asleep, she needed to be asleep since despite returning from her event only a mere eight hours ago she was catching a flight out to San Francisco in the morning, revisiting the contacts she'd made last year and fulling a life-long dream of attending the SFMOMA ball. He should be gracious and tell her to sleep, don't worry it'll be fine, he'll handle it.

"And say what?" He snaps instead.

"Don't say anything." She snaps back tugging on the covers. "He's terrified. He's probably going over and over in his head about murdered girls and not remembering where he was last night and maybe someone being with him might help him relax."

"I'm not climbing into bed with Neal to help him relax." Peter scoffs.

"Did I say that?"

They both lapse into silence, staring at each other in the dim light filtering in from the street through a crack in the curtains.

"Hon." They speak together.

"I'm sorry, just tired." Peter sums up, leaving out his worries about Neal's general mental state.

"It has been an eventful week." She tells him needlessly, leaning over for a kiss. "But I think if he's not sleeping, and you're not sleeping because he's not sleeping, then maybe you can find an answer to that together? You know, so the one person who wants to sleep can."

She says it so sweetly Peter nearly misses the underlying threat.

"I'll just go sit with him, might help him relax." He shuffles out of bed.

"Good idea." She says to the empty room, pulling the covers over her head with a relieved sigh.

…

Peter shuffles across the hallway, pillow in hand, snagging a throw from the closet on his way before backing through the door to the guest room, all ready to camp out in the arm chair. He's telling Neal in a low voice not to freak out and about El's early morning flight, but when he turns toward the bed his words catch in his throat and the pillow and throw drop to the floor.

"Neal?" Peter shouts, pounding down the stairs the same way he had done so many moons ago, after the first time Neal had broken his radius and come to his house. He'd checked the upstairs bathroom with dread filling his chest and wasn't expecting to find Neal getting an innocent glass of water from the kitchen either. "Neal? Answer me kid!"

As feared the house is empty and - Peter paused in the middle of his living room, experimentally feeling the air- cold. The backdoor looked closed, but as he steps near he can see it's only pushed to, the narrow gap letting enough winter air in to drop the temperature by several degrees. Snatching his gun from the dresser Peter steps stealthy out into the dark. Before his eyes can assimilate to the night Satchmo comes bounding toward him, dancing at Peter's feet.

"Hon?" Elizabeth had heard the racket and naturally followed, wrapping her robe around herself as she joins him at the open back door. "What's wrong with Satch? Why are you outside?"

Peter shushes her.

"What?" El frowns, staring into the dark, trying to see what Peter is looking at.

"I don't know." He reaches behind and pats her arm without breaking his stare, which remains fixed and unwavering away from the house. "Wait here."

Peter steps further out onto the patio. The icy air biting into the exposed skin on his arms and face. A few steps and the shadow he'd first noticed hovering in the distance morphs into a familiar silhouette.

"Neal? Neal, come back inside, its freezing." Peter childes.

Satchmo had followed Peter back up the garden and joined Neal, sitting quietly at his feet, facing the same way, the pair of them like statues in the moonlight.

"Neal?" Peter huffs, exhausted from not only the day but thinking of what the next may bring. "Neal, I want to go bed which means you're going to bed."

The threat of a bedtime was a weak attempt to rile him and predictably it fails. Neal doesn't respond, not a flinch or turn of head to acknowledge he's been busted. It occurs that maybe this is Neal's idea of pushing boundaries. After being told he isn't allowed out of Peter's sight, he decides to leave the house. Sounds exactly like something Neal would do. But then again Neal had been subdued tonight, after Peter had told him about the murder and shown him the crime scene pictures to see if it jogged any memory. Neal didn't do dead bodies and he'd initially questioned the benefit, but the need to get this resolved had forced his hand.

"Neal, are you even listening?" Getting nothing, Peter steps closer. "Neal? Hey, Neal! Come on kid it's going to snow and I don't want to be out here when it does."

"Do you feel that?" His voice is distant, no inflection, no hint of annoyance or amusement.

"What?" Peter looks around as if expecting to see something. "Fricking freezing is what I feel, now come on," Peter grabs his arm and Neal jerks away.

Satchmo barks and Peter lunges, catching Neal just as his knees fold and hit the long, wet snow-covered grass beneath their feet. "Easy, easy." He rubs small circles between shaking shoulder blades, "did you hurt yourself?"

"What?" Neal gasps, likes he's experiencing the cold for the first time. "W…w-hy are we outside?"

Peter's insides tense at the kid looking up at him with unfiltered fear. "Neal, what's the last thing you remember?" He waits for an answer, dampness from the cold and snow soaking the bottom of his jogging bottoms. "Neal?"

Looking and waiting, Peter shakes narrow shoulders. Neal parts his lips, and tips forward without warning.

"Shit," Peter scrambles, adjusts his grip from tentative to full on restraining. "Okay, steady, Neal can you hear me? Neal?"

Blinking lethargically, inches from face planting the floor, the kid's a dead weight in his arms. Peter doesn't bother trying to rouse him. Folding him up, pulling Neal close, one arm wrapped around his back, hooking the other under his legs Peter breaths in the scent of sweat and apple shampoo for the second time and carries Neal back into the house.

"Peter?"

"Call an ambulance." He orders, pushing passed El through the kitchen, dumping Neal's unconscious body on the couch.

"Is he breathing?"

Peter nod's, double checking while he steadies his own breathing, the effort of lifting the kid in from the yard winding him. In the next second Neal's coughing uncontrollably, body jerking.

"Neal?"

"I don't – no, don't…Peter!"

"Neal!" Peter leans over and shakes him.

Neal's eyes snap open, upper body flipping forward so forcefully Peter counters by falling back.

"W-what's happening?"

"Hon?"

Peter splits his attention between his panicked wife and frightened friend, answering El first. She apologies to the emergency responder who picked up her call citing false alarm, trusting Peter's judgement to hold off. Dropping her cell onto the kitchen counter, Peter still sitting on the floor by Neal's feet catching his breath, they share a look and make a silent agreement to work this out together.


	4. Chapter 4

Showered, changed and lying down on the couch, hot chocolate clasped between slowly warming fingers, Neal's calmer, but still shaking despite the blankets tucked around him. Peter doesn't know what's going on, but they're going back to the hospital first thing in the morning. Whatever that was outside, it was a repeat of the scene on the bridge. And just like the scene on the bridge, Neal remembers none of it. In a way that's good news. For Peter, it means when Neal was dangling 100 feet over the East River giving him a heart attack, he was quite literally out of his mind. Of course, that raises the question of why was Neal out of his mind two nights in a row. And how come it seems to only be at night? They spend at least 80% of their time together, and Peter has noticed nothing strange about Neal's behaviour this week, other than he's seemed tired. El had asked him how he was feeling when Neal joined them for dinner the other night. She mentioned the flu that had been spreading like it does at this time of year, but the kid had smiled and claimed to be fine. Neal does have a fever but did he have it before his little trip to Columbus and Brooklyn Bridge in the dead of night? That Peter doesn't know.

Perched on the arm chair watching Neal sip his hot chocolate, deftly avoiding conversation or eye contact, he ruminates on all those questions. Elizabeth, the purveyor of the hot chocolate gets his attention by running her hand across his shoulders as she passes behind him heading for the stairs. Peter pats a barely registering Neal on the knee before following her.

"Maybe I should cancel my trip." She whispers, gaze fixed on the back of Neal's head.

"No, it's fine. I got this." Peter looks to Neal. "Whatever this is."

Elizabeth runs her fingers lightly over his arm. "You sure you'll be okay without me for a few days?"

Peter gives her a kiss and sends her to bed, apologising with his eyes about the disturbed sleep and promising to make it up to her the second she's home. Turning back to Neal Peter takes a deep breath and slowly walks over, squeezing onto the lip of the couch by Neal's feet.

They stare at each other, long and hard. The room is considerably warmer now the door is closed and without the chill of winter air Peter can feel the pull of sleep taking him over. Without a word spoken he removes the empty mug from Neal's clasped hands placing it on the coffee table and pulls him to his feet. They say nothing as Peter escorts him upstairs. Climbing into bed and pulling up the covers Neal's stare asks the question.

Peter ghosts a hand through shower damp hair, fingers catching in tangled curls. "Go to sleep. It can wait until morning."

He flicks off the lamp and drops into the adjacent arm chair, propping his crossed feet on the bottom of the bed and closing his eyes. Within minutes of hearing Neal's relaxed breathing Peter's asleep.

…

Neal startles awake, sitting bolt up-right and sucking in air as if it's his first breath. Daylight floating in through a gap in the drawn curtains he frantically searches the room, checking every corner with wide eyes until his heart settles.

"Just a dream." he tells himself, fear lingering despite the familiar sights and smells of the Burke's guest bedroom.

After several deep breaths, the scent of lavender fabric softener infiltrating his lungs, Neal's calm but confused. Swinging his legs around, bare feet landing on the cold hard floor he instinctively looks towards the arm chair next to the bed and finds it empty, only a lone pillow and pile of discarded blankets trailing from seat to floor. Looking inward he recalls Peter bringing him home, El forcing food into him and Peter sending him to bed. All very domesticated, nothing standing out as requiring an overnight babysitter. Rubbing his eyes, as if applying pressure to already dry and sore eyeballs will somehow fill the gaps, Neal climbs out of bed and makes his way to the bathroom.

Having sleepily gone through the motions he shuffles over to the sink, turns on the tap and is reaching for the soap when he catches his reflection in the mirror. A bruise, red with a light purpling around the edges, covers most of his cheek. Gripping the slowly filling bowl, knuckles turning white with the effort of keeping upright, Neal can't tear his gaze away. Seeing the damage connects the synapses in his brain, like live electric cables a spark ignites, and he suddenly registers the pain radiating out from that side of his face.

Releasing one shaking hand Neal turns off the tap before he floods Elizabeth's bathroom and pokes the crusted over scrape at the centre of the damage. Struggling to draw in breath Neal frantically searches, hands knocking toothbrush holders and soaps dispensers from their places looking for something, anything to cling onto-

_Everything's dark. He's lying prone, looking up into the night sky. The air is cold, his clothes are wet. He can't think, mind blank on how or why, just knowing he's here and he really doesn't want to be…_

…

Peter woke up early. The second consciousness slipped in the pain in his lower back made itself known, leaving him no choice but to get up and greet the day. Groaning as he moves his feet from bed to floor, a glance at his watch tells Peter it's a little after 7am. Neal's still asleep, curled in an impossible position. Knees scrunched up touching his chest, one arm slung haphazardly over his head, the other trapped under it, duvet pooling at the end of the bed. Feeling confident he isn't going anywhere anytime soon Peter pulls the covers back up to keep him warm and heads downstairs.

Taking the milk from the fridge he sees El's left him a note stuck to the door, there's instructions for her signature hot chocolate and the contact of a doctor in Pier Pont who specialises in sleep disorders. Peter knows El knows the FBI has resources for all manner of things, but El also knows Neal, and knowing Neal has clearly decided what she knows is best. It's while smiling at his wife's intuition as the coffee percolates that he hears the first rumble of movement from upstairs. The smile falters slightly, he's concentrating on deciphering the meaning behind the sporadic bumps and clangs when an unmistakeable cry reaches his ears. Despite being certain no danger made it into the house in the ten minutes he's been awake Peter is quick off his chair, heading for the guest room.

Neal is just as quick it seems. They collide on the stairs. Peter thinks he's prepared for just about anything at this point but is taken by surprise when he's engulfed in a fierce hug.

"Neal," Peter quickly reciprocates, forced into catching him after Neal launches himself from a couple of steps up. "What happened?" The arms wrapped around his neck tighten and Peter can't hold him steady any longer, "Kid, I need to breath."

"Sorry," he sniffs and finding his feet quickly pulls back, slipping out of Peter's hold.

Careful to keep his gaze on the ground Neal heads for the kitchen. Left staring at the empty space, Peter quickly gains his faculties and follows, finding him at the counter pouring coffee with shaky hands.

"You okay?" He reaches out, but nerves get the better of him and he quickly snatches his hand back, shoving both into his sweat pants pockets. Neal's staring intently at the coffee he's pouring and completely misses the aborted move. "You want to tell me what that was about?" He points with his chin to the hallway.

It's the first time Peter's drawn attention to the unusual, overly emotional behaviour. He could see how close Neal was to tears yesterday in the interrogation room, but had put that down to the overall surrealness of the situation.

Neal's hand stills mid pour of a second mug, for him Peter presumes. "Just a bad dream."

"Oh," he keeps up the casual pretence, stepping closer without touching, "about what?"

A shrug is his answer. The silence stretches, a mixture of emotions passing over Neal's face. No bright smile concealing the truth this time. He slides a mug over the counter and turns to leave, affording Peter a view of his damaged cheek. They haven't spoken about the scene on the bridge either. Honestly, Peter has no idea how to bring it up. The fact the marshals had yanked Neal from the hospital before they got answers should have pissed him off, but secretly he'd been relieved. It meant they didn't have to acknowledge any of it, could pretend it never even happened.

Idiot.

Watching Neal walk into his living room, shoulders slumped and head down it physically hurt seeing the kid so defeated. Peter isn't fooled by the bright smile or the over confident attitude Caffrey puts out day to day. It's a mask, how Neal's learned to interact with the world. In the three years he was chasing him one thing became very clear - the kid was incredibly vulnerable. A hopeless romantic he wanted to see the good in everyone, not the law-abiding kind of good, the morally good. As far as Neal's concerned he never stole from anyone who couldn't afford it or didn't deserve it. And when he came across those who didn't adhere to a good moral code, well he made them pay too – in his own none-violent way. Unfortunately, that idealistic outlook leaves him open to manipulation and Peter's main worry about all of this is that somehow, someone is once again messing with his heart.

…

"Why are we here?"

Peter stops dead in the middle of the corridor and stares at Neal. "Are you really asking me that again?"

Neal stares back, his gaze unwavering. Shaking his head Peter bites his tongue and gets them moving again, hand pressed forcefully into the middle of Neal's back, propelling him forward.

"You can't make me see a doctor." Neal tosses over his shoulder, making a show of dragging his feet and touching anything not nailed down as he passes.

"Actually, yes I can." Peter ignores it all and keeps them moving, refusing to rise to the obvious bait.

"I'm an adult. I get to make my own decisions." Neal keeps walking towards the admittance desk regardless.

"Well then act like one." Peter pokes him, "as an adult I imagine you'd realise the importance of seeking help when you don't feel well."

"I feel fine." Neal says breezily, carefully not looking Peter in the eye.

Peter wasn't going to continue this argument by asking Neal if he was lying to him. Yes, the fever had come down to the point it really wasn't a fever anymore, and yes by all accounts Neal appeared physically fit and healthy, but he wasn't taking any chances.

"You're my responsibility. If I want to drag your ass to hospital, then I can do just that, and you don't have a choice. That's the deal, that's always been the deal. You want to go back to prison and spend the next three years rotting alone in a prison cell then be my guest." Peter pauses, waits for another cocky response. When none comes he smiles and marches a very disgruntled Neal Caffrey up to the front desk. "FBI," Peter flashes his badge to the receptionist. "One of my agents should have called ahead."

"This isn't a hospital. It's a clinic." Neal slips in.

The young woman taps away on her keyboard, ignoring their continued bickering and points them to wait in the chairs opposite. After about twenty minutes a nurse calls Neal's name and shows them to a cubical.

"You left the ER AMA yesterday Mr Caffrey." The nurse hands Peter a clipboard with all the usual paperwork to fill out.

"That wasn't really his choice." Peter butts in, badge in hand once again. "He was temporarily taken into the US Marshal's custody and they removed him. He's back in my custody now."

Neal zones out of the conversation, doesn't need to be reminded how the marshals showed absolutely no compassion by arresting him while Peter had been busy chasing his doctor. The buffoon who will forever be filed as marshal Marshall in Neal's mind pulled him from the cubical in cuffs, threatening to throw him in general population if he didn't go quietly. Luckily Peter had heard the commotion and as Peter was known to do where Neal was concerned completely blew up. Thankfully on this occasion Peter blew up at the marshal. That was how he'd ended up at White Collar instead of Rikers, wearing itchy ill-fitting hospital scrubs with no idea what alleged crime he was being accused of this time.

"Neal? You with us?" Fingers click in front of his face.

"What-" Neal blinks and the room comes back into focus, "sorry."

"No problem," the nurse is holding out an examination gown. "Put this on. I'll be back to take blood pressure in a minute."

She leaves, and Neal casually hops up onto the bed. "What's that?" He nods at the clipboard Peter's holding while changing.

"Paperwork to ensure they share everything they find with the FBI and only the FBI."

"Ever occurred to you I might not want the FBI to know my vital statistics or my blood type."

"We already know your blood type." Peter starts filling out the forms with the usual information.

"Not my real one."

"You did not forge your own blood."

Neal just smiles. "This place is very upscale, probably not covered by the federal correctional system. Take it this is the clinic of choice for FBI Agents? Hughes know he's getting the bill?"

Peter whistles, focus fixed on ticking the right boxes. "He'll support me."

"Practicing the 'better to ask forgiveness than permission' trick?" Neal smirks. "Thought that was my speciality."

"You're a bad influence, what can I say?" Peter looks up briefly, offering a matching grin.

The nurse returns as promised, ready to poke and prod in all the wrong places. She asks Peter to leave during the exam, but something suddenly comes over him because the thought of being alone is terrifying and all Neal can think is he needs Peter to stay.

"No!" he shouts, desperation hitting its peak the second Peter grabs the curtain to step out.

Both the nurse and Peter freeze. Neal's aware he must look like an idiot but doesn't have the words to explain the anxiety he's feeling bubbling up inside of him. Some of it must be clear on his face and in his tense posture though because Peter's back at side, lips pressed into a tight line, soft brown eyes promising not to leave.

"Thanks," Neal whispers, releasing a white knuckled grip from the bed to pat Peter's arm.

The nurse completes a basic exam, taking his blood pressure, checking his ears, nose and throat. She offers to look at his cheek, the mention of which kills any remaining good vibes he's had since Peter dragged him here. Finding himself now completely mute Neal flinches away when she tries to touch him.

"He okay?" Peter asks when the nurse simply frowns.

Her gaze is focused on Neal and Neal's unable to look away, a feeling of dread building inside him.

"Just a little dehydrated." She smiles politely, breaking away first.

The next thing Neal's truly aware of is being handed a plastic cup of what he's told is water and encouraged by Peter to drink. Finishing every last drop he holds the cup out for a refill, but on looking up and around it's just him and Peter present, the nurse is gone.

"Mr Caffrey?" A different woman, this one wearing in a white coat and heels steps into the cubical next, reading intently from a chart in her hands. "I'm Dr. Clarke."

Neal waves, giving her a forced mega-watt smile, which is wasted since the doctor doesn't even bother to look up.

Peter clears his throat and steps forward, "I'm-"

"Agent Burke." Dr Clarke does look up then, looking directly at Peter with unfiltered annoyance until moving her pointed gaze to Neal. "Mr Caffrey according to these notes you were rather disoriented yesterday. Do you remember anything more now?"

Still on edge and embarrassed from his reaction to the nurse Neal lightly rubs his damaged cheek, glazed eyes looking up and around the room, anywhere but at the doctor. "I- was on the Brooklyn bridge, Peter was..."

"Peter was what?" Her interruption is stern and as unwavering as her stare.

Not one to be easily intimated Neal attempts to answer her question in his usual charming and evasive way but finds himself choking on his words. Finger nails dig into the thin mattress, bunching the sheets. The atmosphere suddenly hot and stuffy he swallows, convulsing, he's dizzy and just like this morning in the bathroom his vision grey's around the edges and Neal feels himself falling, plummeting into darkness...

"I was there." Peter moves closer to Neal, slipping one warm hand through the gap in the gown to press on the small of his back.

The kid looks set to take a nose dive off the bed, face drained of colour, eyelids at half-mast. The doctor doesn't blink but she must have noticed too.

"Okay, and do you know why you were on the bridge?"

Neal leans sideways and shakes his head, hair brushing Peter's shoulder. "I-"

"That we're still not sure about," Peter interrupts, worried about his current state of mind and not wanting Neal unwittingly sharing any information about the murder.

The doctor critically eyes them both. Her gaze pressing for answers. Peter feels Neal shift closer, leaning further into him and taking deep little breaths. The quick breathing is a tell he's picked up on, something Neal does to keep calm when he's upset or scared. Right now, Peter fears he's both.

"Anything else I should know about?" Doctor Clarke persists.

He sighs and looks down at the normally resilient young man now fully pressed against his side. Getting a view of the kid's dark ruffled hair and little else an ache fills his chest. It only took seconds for the doctor to destroy Neal's confident façade, exposing the unconfident and self-conscious little boy Peter has always known hides underneath.

Squeezing him tight Peter launches into an explanation for insisting Neal be seen this morning. "Last night after going to bed he wandered out into the yard and collapsed. He was only out a couple of minutes, but when he woke up he had no idea where he was or what had happened."

"Did he lose consciousness?"

"Yes, I had to carry him back inside."

Peter didn't need to look down at Neal to know the surprise sure to be on his face. With his memories so sketchy the onus was on Peter to decide how much he needed to know at once. Talking him through the murder he was a suspect in had been traumatic enough.

"And you didn't take him back to the ER last night because?"

Because taking him in would have alerted the marshals and Peter wanted to keep Neal as low key with them as possible. "I felt it was safe to let him rest and bring him in this morning." Peter punctuated his lie with a confident smile, something he'd learnt to pull off since working with Neal.

The doctor hummed her disapproval, but thankfully didn't push further. "Okay, so Neal. Can I call you Neal?"

The brief reprieve from having to answer questions about the night on the bridge allowed Neal time to snap out of whatever dark place his mind had taken him. Sitting up a little straighter, his equilibrium regained he answers her next round of questions with ease. Apparently as long as no one mentioned the previous night's antics he was fine. Peter stays close anyway, offering both comfort and protection, watching and waiting to step in if necessary.

"I think we're done here. You already had bloods drawn at the ER yesterday, results typically come back in 5 -7 days."

"Can we rush those?" Peter asks.

"No." The doctor writes something on the chart and looks to Neal. "Have you taken any drugs in the last 48 hours?"

"Nothing." The doctor continues to stare. "Some over the counter cold medicine." He shrugs.

"Anything else?"

"Advil." Neal blinks, cheeks pinking he points at Peter. "He made me."

Peter shakes his head, praying for strength to last the day. "He's been running a low fever."

"Your temperature is slightly elevated, but there's no evidence of an infection or virus." She pauses, considering her next question. "Neal is there a history of sleep disorders in your family?"

"I really wouldn't know."

"What about mental health; depression or anxiety?"

"Again, no clue."

"What about your parents?"

"What about them?"

"Well, a comprehensive medical history is important in diagnosis, maybe you could call them?"

Neal sighs, a frustrated sound that signals he really doesn't want to have to share anything, but knows he needs to give the doctor something to shut her up. "I haven't seen my mom in over ten years, I have no idea where she is," he says quickly, eyes flicking on impulse to Peter and back to the doctor again. "And I've never known my Dad, so can we move on?"

Peter had already prepared himself to learn something new about his wayward charge the second the question about family was asked. Neal was being cagey, and since Peter already knew about his Dad thanks to the Burma case he guessed, correctly it seems, the caginess had something to do with his mother. Even so, it wasn't quite what he'd been expecting and instinctively gave the kid another little squeeze.

"Okay, well we'll have a better idea of what's happening when your bloods come back, however given there's no obvious signs or symptoms of illness, at this stage the most likely explanation is that you were sleepwalking."

"That's it?" Peter recognises too late that he almost sounds disappointed.

"It's not common in adults, but certainly possible." The doctor nods airily. "Have you been under any extra pressure or stress recently?"

Neal bursts out laughing, having made a weak attempt to hold it in until looking up and meeting Peter's unimpressed gaze.

"He creates stress for me every day." Peter silences Neal with a glare. "What can we do?"

"For now, keep a close eye on him."

"Oh, I already do. Trust me."

"I suggest a regular sleep schedule, no alcohol and keep away from stressful situations. I'll see you in seven days for a follow up." She tears a note off her chart and hands it to Peter.

Neal gives her a disgruntled look but doesn't argue. After four years in prison and then being under Peter's charge, he's become used to having to be submissive to the authority of others.

"What's this?"

"A script for Ambien. He should take one a night for the first few nights, it should keep him in a deeper sleep for longer. Keep giving him the fever reducers and all being well you should see improvement in a few days."

"Shouldn't I see a specialist or something?" Neal interrupts them, frustrated that somehow in all this he's been excluded from the conversation.

"If you have a sleep disorder yes, but given your current situation-"

"My situation?"

"You're wearing a GPS tracking anklet and the FBI and US marshals are fighting over custody of you." Dr Clarke clips her pen to her jacket, "plus the federal prison system is listed as footing the bill for any essential treatment outside of this clinic."

"Gotcha," Neal winks, smiling painfully at her retreating back as she slips out the cubical.

…

"Well that was worth it." Peter grumbles, walking side by side with Neal back to the car. "What's that for?" Indicating Neal's smile.

"You overreacted."

"You collapsed in my arms." Peter glares. "Or did you miss the part where I had to carry you back into my house."

"I don't remember it so yeah, guess I missed it." Neal slips into the passenger seat, Peter following suit.

"Not remembering doesn't mean it didn't happen." Peter leans over from behind the steering wheel and grabs his wrist before he clips the belt in place. "You very near fell off that bridge. Memory or no, I remember it, Jones remembers it, El, June and Mozzie know about it. It's not something any of us are going to forget or wish to see ever again. We're going to be a little precious over you for the next couple of days, deal with it."

Neal listens, tries to keep his face neutral but the heartfelt and very un-Peter like words break down some of his barriers. Recalling how he woke up this morning, his reaction to being left alone with the nurse and how he felt when the doctor started asking questionings about the other night, he realises he's only downplaying everything now out of embarrassment. Deep down, he's truly terrified.

"Okay, I get it. And I'll do whatever you want, see whatever doctor you want me too, but that doesn't change our other problem."

"The marshals." Peter agrees.

"Not just them." Neal hesitates, looks out the window at the grey winter day, trying to find focus to say in words exactly what his mind is thinking. "What if… what if I did something in my sleep without realising?"

"Neal, I know this is scary, but I know you. You wouldn't be capable."

"But-"

"No buts." Peter shushes him, "Now we're sure you're not likely to pass out on me again, during the day at least, we go to work. You didn't do this and there has to be evidence or someone who can give you an alibi to prove it. Once we find them, then we'll work on why you've suddenly decided to go walkabout in your sleep."

"You think you can find someone to give us those answers?"

Peter puts the car into drive and pulls into traffic. "El handled that already."


	5. Chapter 5

Peter looks up from the crime scene report he's been trying to read for the past half hour. He's read the same line about how the victim was found, shot in the back, body on the floor by the rear fire exit, over ten times now. His brain unable to move passed the paragraph describing her injuries in the usual detached and clinical manner of an NYPD homicide detective who saw these kinds of crimes every day. His gaze lazily tracks to Neal, sitting next to him at the briefing room table, unnaturally still and silent, own concentration clearly not on the contents of the file in front of him either.

"Hey," Peter waits for Neal to look his way. "You doing okay?"

"I'm fine." Neal says, shaking his head to clear it, rubbing both eyes with the knuckles of tightly clenched fists.

"You're tired." Peter points out, feeling it necessary since he's never seen Neal fail to match his body language to his words before, no matter how bad the situation.

"Well you would be too, if you'd been prowling the city every night like I apparently have."

He pushes away from the table and stands, arms wrapping protectively around his middle when he faces the windows. Like he's afraid the close contact will break down the last of his walls, leaving nothing to stop the emotional storm brewing behind those wet, sad, clear blue eyes from bursting.

Peter stares dejectedly at his back, the city scape beyond engulfing him in its calming yellow glow as the sun sets over federal plaza. They've been at the office all day since leaving the clinic, pouring over Neal's anklet data and all the evidence gathered by the NYPD, including the CCTV feed. One thing they are certain of, Neal's done a lot of walking the past few nights. Always leaving his apartment around 1am and returning by 5am like clockwork, which explained why neither June or the staff where ever aware he was missing. The pattern wasn't obvious at first, but a closer look showed that although each night he took a different route, he made the same distance in the same circular sequence, never stopping in any particular place.

"I'm sorry." Neal doesn't turn around. "Maybe I do need to get some sleep."

Peter pushes up from the table, grabs Neal's suit jacket from the back of the chair and joins him at his side. "Come on, I'll take you home."

Neal shifts his gaze from staring out the window to Peter, catching his cheeks just right that the low winter sun reflects off and highlights the tears he's clearly trying to keep at bay. Flashing back to the tears he witnessed on the bridge and his near loss of control in the interrogation room, Peter recalls a time not so long ago, when El's friend's husband had been framed for stealing Iraqi gold, that he'd told Neal he could handle him crying because all he had to do was nudge him on the shoulder and tell him to cowboy up. Now faced with the reality, Peter muses on just what is acceptable right now. A 'cowboy up' when the poor kid's already feeling helpless and vulnerable seems insensitive, even for him.

"Boss! We've identified one of the other people on the Pavilion's camera feed," Diana enters the room in a flurry, carrying a small stack of folders in one hand, quickly clearing space on the table with the other.

Neal reacts the second she steps into the room, swiping at his eyes and stepping away, determined to slip back into his usual confidence-man façade.

"They reliable?" Peter turns, drops the coat with a conflicted sigh and takes the top file.

"You could say that." She smiles warily, asking him with no more than a look what's going on.

"Who is it?" Neal asks, pulling himself together, distracting himself by throwing the empty coffee cups and takeaway cases in the bin.

"Amber Terrell." Peter reads aloud from the file, shaking his head at Diana.

Neal doesn't look up, continuing with his task which helpfully hides his face under the long un-gelled fringe. "I don't know the name."

"No reason why you should." Diana speaks directly to Neal, but her eyes flick back to him acknowledging the unvoiced 'not now but later' and presenting Peter with a second file. "You'll never guess who she's connected to."

Peter reads the name on file number two to himself and falls silent.

Neal's watching him, waiting. "Peter?"

Peter looks to Diana, "You sure about this?"

"Oh yeah."

"If this turns out to be legit you know what this means?"

Neal's watching the exchange, Peter can see he's getting agitated by the way he bounces on his heels and practically runs around the table to get a look. "Guys?"

Peter moves away, back to the open door making it difficult for Neal to steal a look without making his desperation completely obvious.

Jones enters at the same moment and proximity alone affords him a glance at the name over Peter's shoulder. "Hoo-boy." He whistles, looking up and over at Neal. "This just got complicated."

"Peter please!"

"Okay, okay." Peter points at a chair, "sit down and I'll show you."

Neal eyes him suspiciously but drops in the nearest seat without argument. Head tilted up, earnest expression in place, knees jumping up and down as if on springs, 'adorable' should not be a word popping into his head when looking at his C.I, but it does and it's all because of Neal's uncanny ability to look incredibly young, innocent and vulnerable, when he's not trying to con people into believing the slick confident image he exudes daily that is.

Peter smiles down at him and sits too, rolling his chair closer to Neal, bumping their elbows together as he leans in. "Carlton Hayes."

"Who?" Neal frowns at the picture of the none descript man in his mid to late 50's.

"Another Vincent Adler," Peter briefly raises his eyes to gage Neal's reaction, "but before your time. He took more than $800 million from investors and shareholders in his tech company after purporting to save businesses all over the world from the Y2K bug."

"The disaster that never was." Neal comments with a familiar and well missed look of mischief ghosting his face. "You didn't catch him?"

"He disappeared in early 2000 after accusations he started the scare to begin with. By the time we gathered enough evidence and lined up witnesses to testify it was too late. He hasn't been seen since."

"So, who's this?" Neal pointed at the first file Diana had given Peter.

"According to our intel Amber Terrell was his personal assistant." He waits a beat. "His Kate."

"You knew her?" Neal swallows, staring at the photo of the twenty-something brunette with blue eyes.

"Not really."

"Didn't you get her to flip on Hayes?" Jones asks.

"She was one of over dozen employees we interviewed and who agreed to give evidence in exchange for full immunity." Peter quickly reviews the file, gaze flicking up and over, watching Neal's reaction carefully. "When we lost him the case fell apart, I wasn't case lead and got quickly reassigned, but assume if the deal stuck she'd have been moved into WITSEC. Either way I doubt she stayed in New York."

Neal skims the file across the table back to Diana, photo face down and shifts closer to Peter, "could this be a coincidence?"

Reading the signs of a Neal struggling to maintain control Peter slips his arm around him, just like he did at the hospital this morning, lightly pressing a reassuring hand to the small of his back. "You just happen to sleepwalk your way into a crime you could have easily committed and a woman the FBI flipped on her 'most wanted' boss just happens to be a potential witness?"

…

Neal registers Peter's touch instantly and is immensely grateful but doesn't let on. Jones and Diana are watching and the last thing he needs is to look weak in front of either of them.

"Take your point." He nods and opens his mouth, intending to make a witty retort like he usually would, but stops himself short when Peter's face drops. "What's wrong?"

Peter looks tense, which makes Neal tense because usually that face has something to do with him.

"This could be all my fault."

No one speaks for what feels like a very long time. Peter is staring dead ahead at the grey walls lost in thought. A glance at Jones and Diana show they aren't any better informed than him.

"What about the victim? Is there any connection with Terrell or Hayes?" Jones interjects, breaking the uncomfortable silence.

"We should go get the files from archives and find out." Diana nudges Clinton, waiting for him to stand before walking out.

Still sitting side by side Neal finds himself alone with Peter.

"You okay?" He asks timidly, wincing at his own tone the second the words are out.

"You know until we can prove you didn't do this you'll still be a suspect." Peter coughs, redirects. Completely ignoring the question. "If this is a set-up then we're going to have a much harder job than we thought."

"Well the only sure-fire way to prove I didn't do this is to prove someone else did."

"Right." Peter breaks from his stare at the wall to stare at Neal. "We'll get on that first thing tomorrow. You ready to go home?"

Neal blinks, that was not what he'd been expecting. Peter almost never calls it a day when there's work they can be actively doing. Not that he wants to stay late mind, he's spent the entire week feeling like shit and now he knows why he's been so tired he's finding it increasingly hard to stay awake, let alone concentrate. He wants answers, but right now all he can feel is heavy, down to his bones, exhaustion.

That's when it hits him, and surprise quickly turns to gratitude.

"Thanks." Neal gives Peter a tired smile.

"For what? Getting you dragged into a decade old case you had nothing to do with?"

He ignores the comment about the case, until they have evidence either way there's no point trying to change Peter's mind.

"No," Neal shifts, dislodging the hold Peter still has on him. "Asking the judge to let me stay with you."

Peter waves it off. "I wouldn't be able to sleep knowing you could be wandering into all kinds of trouble, even in prison."

"Still, I don't think I'd have stuck around long enough to find out if you hadn't."

Peter laughs nervously. Neal guesses knowing he can escape prison again if he really wanted to and having it confirmed are two entirely different things.

"We'll sort this." Peter looks him in the eye. "Trust me."

Neal allows a soft smile. "I do."

…

Peter's sat at his kitchen table looking over his old notes on the Hayes investigation. It's gone 2am and he still can't sleep, too many unanswered questions keeping his mind sharp and body alert.

Not the case with his partner however.

Soft snores are emanating from his living room and a glance over proves everything is alright there. Peter smiles to himself, happy with the current status quo. There are worse endings to a day than Neal falling asleep on his couch. Arriving home had been strange with El gone, but thankfully he didn't get a repeat of last night's argument, just a couple of grumbles about being treated like a baby. Despite that they muddled through, making dinner without too much fuss, Neal yawning and fighting sleep the entire time. The vigorous eye rubbing he'd been engaging in at the office had continued and Peter feared more bruises would appear come morning if he didn't do something.

"Why don't you head up to bed, I'll clean up." Peter had said while rinsing the dishes, so he missed the incredulous look and daggers being thrown his way by one pissed off C.I.

"You realised I'm not six, don't you?"

Neal had always been a stubborn son of a bitch, but the sudden anger took him by surprise. "You're tired," Peter paused in his domestic duties and turned to lean back against the sink, "and I think it'll be best if you get some sleep."

He was sure to keep his tone even, exuding reason and sensibility, but that did little in the face of the tantrum breaking out before his eyes. An affair of childish rebuttals and immature actions where Neal all but hand cuffed himself to the small couch spouting classics such as 'make me' when Peter lost his cool and ordered him to his room. Unfortunately, it took him longer than it should have to realise the real problem, but several biting retorts and angrily barked Neal's later Peter finally brought a clue.

He was afraid.

Neal has the power to talk anyone into believing just about anything, but when he'd been telling Peter he was fine and insisting he wasn't tired in the slightest he couldn't sit still, couldn't even look him in the eye. Putting two and two together, the quick flickering glances towards the stairs, the slight hitch in his voice each time Neal protested leaving Peter to work - the kid wasn't trying to prove anything, he was just scared to be alone. Understandable all things considered, but still not a dependency Peter needed encouraging. El was an empathetic woman, had accepted Neal in their lives this past year without qualm, but she had her limits when it came to sharing their bed, Peter was sure.

Smiling to himself, almost laughing at the absurdity of it all Peter decided a creative approach was needed to address the prolonged display of obstinate behaviour. Since Neal was refusing to budge, he pulled up the arm chair ensuring he couldn't move now if he tried and settled for telling Neal the endearing tale of the boy who refused to obey his handler and ended up back behind bars. It wasn't the most imaginative tale, but it succeeded where all other attempts to reason had failed. Mostly since succumbing to sleep was Neal's only escape from the embarrassment of being subjected to a bedtime story.

Still thinking back on their evening Peter stands and walks over to the couch under the pretence of stretching his legs. Looking down at the relaxed youthful face peeking out from under the afghan tucked around him, never did he imagine this day coming. The day when Neal Caffrey; forger, conman and fugitive, would be not only a regularly visitor, but a persistent overnight guest in his home. If it wasn't for the red and swollen cheek glaring up at him Peter could almost pretend this was one of any number of times Neal had failed to make it off the couch after dinner. Not all of them had been because Neal had been hurt, though there were more of those times than he liked.

His cell starts ringing and Peter jumps back, quickly digging it out of his pocket. "Hey Hon. How's the City?"

 _"The City,"_  Peter can hear her smile,  _"is fantastic as always, how's things there?"_

"Oh," Peter looks back at Neal still sleeping, at the damaged cheek, the constant visual reminder of that night. "Things are... we're doing fine."

_"Hon."_

How she puts so much compassion into that one word he'll never know. "Okay, 'fine' maybe stretching it, but we're managing. As long as Neal doesn't do anything stupid and impulsive like usual everything should work out okay."

_"Is he okay?"_

"He's okay," Peter bends down, readjusts the blanket when Neal rolls over to face the back of the couch, smoothing the wrinkles with his cell free hand before walking away again. "I'm worried about him, El."

He wasn't planning on burdening her, not when she was having a good time, fulfilling a dream, but Elizabeth is his rock in just about everything and she's the one person who he can talk to about Neal without jeopardising their deal.

"I keep seeing him on that bridge. One wrong move and he would've gone over. The doctor says he was sleepwalking but…" He clamps his mouth shut, holding in the words dying to spill out.

_"You're worried it's something more."_

"I don't know how to help him."

_"Kate's only been gone a few months. He's vulnerable right now, just be there for him, he looks up to you."_

"Neal doesn't look up to me," Peter laughs it off. "He has cappuccino in the clouds and I've been wearing the same suit for four years."

_"You like that suit."_

"I do. I do."

_"And you like Neal."_

"I like smart." He concedes, allowing himself a small half smile only because he knows no one can see. "He's annoying. Talks too much. Has a hat as a security blanket - what kind of grown man has a security blanket?"

_"The kind who's fell asleep on our couch far more times than I can count. You should send him to bed by the way."_

Peter rolls his eyes, a wide smile gracing his lips. "I love my all-seeing wife."

 _"And I love my big softie of a husband."_  Peter hears her smile fade.  _"But seriously, I think what you need to remember is Neal may seem confident a lot of the time but really, he's incredibly insecure, he needs you to be his friend. Just…don't do what you usually do."_

"Be an FBI Agent?" Peter's heard the speech before, knows he can get tunnel vision and be ruthless when it comes to finding out the truth.

_"Not everything has to be about a case. Sometimes it's just about the people."_

The words send a shudder down his spine, being eerily similar to something Neal said to him once. He continues to listen to El's reassurances, that despite being quick to suspicion and judgement when it comes to Neal, he's also shown he cares and can actually be comforting when he doesn't try too hard. After swapping goodnights, feeling much more relaxed, Peter pockets his cell and walks back over to the couch, looking down once again at his very own sleeping convict.

He squeezes onto the cushions by Neal's legs, ghosting his thumb over the still very red and swollen cuts gracing his cheek. "Alright kiddo," he starts in a soft whisper, "you get a reprieve tonight, but tomorrow we're having that conversation. El's orders."

"And what conversation might that be?"

"Jesus." Peter jumps, hand instinctively going to his hip despite his gun already being locked away in the safe upstairs. "Mozzie are you trying to give me a heart attack? How the hell did you get in?"

"I came to see Neal."

"That doesn't answer the question."

"I thought you'd be asleep by now."

Peter frowns at the implication. "Neither does that."

"I used your spare key under the rock outside the back door. For an FBI Agent you really should be more imaginative."

"What are you doing here?" Peter hisses, walking over and dragging him into the kitchen where they can talk, hopefully without waking Neal.

"I told you. I came to see Neal. You stole him away and I wanted to check you weren't giving him more of your government mind control drugs."

"Mozzie, no one's giving Neal drugs."

Mozzie stares at him and Peter can't say how he knows, but somehow, he's sure the little guy has once again gotten information from a source he shouldn't have. "Okay I don't know for sure he's not been drugged, but we're still waiting for his bloods to come back."

"I know. I called in a favour. We should have the results by tomorrow." Mozzie's stance relaxes, and he makes his way around Peter with a smile.

Peter starts to ask how but thinks better of it. Dropping the words before sound even makes it out of his mouth he shakes his head, convinced he must be getting far too complacent to these kinds of things and follows Havisham into the living room, finding him where Peter had been sitting only minutes before.

"Why isn't he in bed?"

Peter sighs, maybe he should have invited Mozzie over earlier. Surely, he's had more experience of pissy childish Neal over the years.

"He wasn't very obliging."

"He doesn't look good. Who did that to his face?"

"He's running a fever and the marshal's." Peter answers flatly. "Look Mozzie, Neal's fine. I promise I'm taking good care of him."

Mozzie turns his stare on Peter and without saying anything walks back into the kitchen, retrieving a bag Peter hadn't seen him bring in from the floor, pulling out a bottle of wine and plonking it on the counter. Peter glares at him, once again opens his mouth with the intention of asking a question only to decide it really isn't worth the potential answer.

"Sure, why not." He states instead, turning and grabbing a beer from the fridge, joining Mozzie at the kitchen table.

Glass already poured Mozzie leans in, a look of sincerity shining in the magnified eyes. "Suit, tell me everything."

**…**

Peter focuses on the case, telling Mozzie the basics and that they have more questions than answers, which isn't unusual this early on. Diana and Jones are digging up old information on Hayes and his associates. So far there's no connection to the gallery on Columbus and no connection to the murder victim who they still didn't have much useable information on beyond being an employee of the gallery. Because it's a private gallery and a single homicide, the case officially remains with the NYPD.

Remaining with the local police and not the FBI is both a blessing and a curse. It means they have time to focus solely on building a case in Neal's defence. Of course, in order to build that case, they need to spend FBI time investigating a murder that isn't really theirs to investigate. Hughes has been lenient, turning a blind eye and trusting them to solve this quickly, but they only have so much time before that goodwill runs out and Peter's back in front of a judge, defending his decision to keep Neal out of jail.

"Bottom line? The 'he's my partner and I care about him way more than I should' excuse just won't cut it again. I need to give the DA evidence that exonerates Neal."

Mozzie takes a measured sip of his wine. Deliberately placing the glass central between himself and the bottle.

"That's all well and good suit, but you missed the part about what the hell happened on that bridge."

Peter freezes, beer halfway to his lips. "It's not important."

He quickly finishes the bottle and gets up to retrieve another.

"Not important! How can Neal trying to kill himself not be important?" Mozzie yells, arms flying out, held high and wide, missing his glass by millimetres.

"Mozzie!" Peter slams the fridge door.

"Suit!"

They stare at each other, Peter's tense, breathing deep and slow, trying to calm his racing heart, which double times it every time he's had to think about Neal and that bridge. "What do you want to know? Because I'm not sure I can tell you. I haven't even talked to Neal about it."

Mozzie deflates, falling back. "That's the conversation you were talking about."

His expression doesn't change, not even a blink. Peter doesn't know what to do for the best. El's told him he'll need to talk about it eventually. Diana tried when they were waiting for Neal in the hospital, but he'd shut her down and she's not mentioned it again since. Jones was there on the scene and would be the obvious go to person, but like him he's functioning like it didn't happen.

"He was standing on the ledge and I-" another deep breath. "I thought I was going to lose him."

There, it was out. Peter collapses, grabbing and slumping into the nearest chair, bending over with his head pressed to his knees, hands grasping strands of his hair. This is ridiculous, that's what he wants to believe. Neal's a criminal and could be taken away from him at any time, he wasn't supposed to get attached to the little idiot. But then said little idiot also wasn't supposed to be trying to throw himself off bridges. Losing him to prison is most definitely not the same as losing him from his life permanently, though depending on the prison, could result in the same outcome.

"He's still here. That's what we need to focus on." Mozzie's voice cuts through his thoughts, words surprisingly comforting.

Peter sighs, lifts his head. "Has Neal ever-"

"No." Mozzie clearly read his mind and the answer is as definitive as it can get. "Has he ever been depressed? Sure. But Neal's strong. He always has a plan. He doesn't wallow, he moves on. Focuses on what he can do, not what he can't."

Peter turns, head tilted in concentration. Havisham was right. He knows Neal. Knows him better than his own wife in some respects because as Neal once pointed out Peter could give a detailed account of Caffrey's life from what size clothes he wears to the time he wakes in the morning. And one thing he learnt while chasing him was the kid is as arrogant as they come, a risk taker who knows no limits, no fear of the unknown. He never gives up.

Rubbing his aching head with both palms, Peter's about to suggest they agree to talk about this in the morning when he catches movement out the corner of his eye. Instinctively looking over to the couch Peter's heart jumps into his throat. Neal is no longer lying down fast asleep under the afghan where he left him. Mozzie follows his gaze and is up and out of his seat before Peter can move.

They find him only a few feet away thank god, standing at the bottom of the stairs, eyes wide open and staring up into the darkness of the first floor. It's incredibly creepy, watching Neal looking up at what Peter hopes is nothing.

"Neal?"

Nothing.

"Neal," Peter sighs, knowing the signs well enough by now. "Neal wake up."

He reaches out, fingers skimming the t-shirt he had at least managed to coax him into earlier when Mozzie's hand quickly pulls him back.

 _What?_  Peter mouths.

Mozzie drags him back a few more steps, whispering. "You shouldn't wake him."

"Why?"

"You should never wake a sleepwalker."

"If you're about to say it'll kill him," Peter mocks, "save it."

"I'm offended you think of me as so pedestrian." Mozzie levels him with his usual affronted glare. "You shouldn't wake a sleepwalker because it startles them, causes extreme anxiety and confusion."

Peter can attest to that actually. Both times he's been present and woken Neal it's resulted in an intense emotional reaction he'd rather not repeat.

"So, what do you suggest?"

"Leave him. We can follow him, keep him safe and hopefully he'll go back to sleep on his own."

Peter mulls that over and decides it's worth a try. So long as Neal doesn't leave the house. Outside there's no telling what trouble he'll get into and frankly Neal wandering Brooklyn in one of Peter's college t-shirts - the only one that came close to fitting him since Neal's own sleep clothes were still in the washing pile after his adventures in the yard last night - is not an option.

"Okay, let's do it."

Neal starts moving. Mozzie and Peter follow him up-stairs, into the master bedroom. Peter resists the urge to stop him right there. As uncomfortable and voyeuristic as this is Neal's unlikely to hurt himself with El's moisturises and potpourri jars. He'd already planned ahead and locked up all medications, razors and sharp implements, putting them well out of reach. Neal heads for the closet and removes the box nestled behind the luggage on the top self. Peter's Caffrey box. It entices a smile. Peter mentally makes a note to find a better hiding place. Placing the box on the bed Neal tips it up, sending the contents rolling over the sheets. He's searching for something that much is clear, but Peter doesn't know what. He shouldn't know the box exists let alone its contents.

Mozzie remains at his side. Watching like him in complete fascination. After a minute of tossing things aside Neal picks up one of the many birthday cards he sent Peter over the years. Concentration fixed on the card Neal drops to the bed clutching it to his chest.

Havisham attempts a step forward, Peter swipes an arm across his chest. "One criminal in my bedroom is enough."

Wide eyed behind the thick frames the little guy looks set to protest, but clamps his mouth shut, giving a small shrug.

Peter relaxes, turning back to Neal now curled up on top of the sheets. "I should stay with him."

"Good thinking suit. I'll take the couch."

Havisham hightails it quickly down the stairs, affording Peter no opportunity to protest.


	6. Chapter 6

 

When Neal opens his eyes the next morning he's very aware he isn't where he fell asleep. For starters the surface beneath him is too soft and too large to be the Burke's sofa. Paranoia quickly sets in, fearing Peter had at some point carried him to bed. Although that would be extreme, even for Peter. Shifting carefully the duvet covering him slips, exposing his bare arms to the early morning chill and causing an involuntary shiver to rip right through him. Instinctually he tries to re-cover himself, tugging the duvet and tucking it around his shoulders. Snuggling further into his cocoon Neal rolls over and is instantly met with a very solid, very warm immoveable object.

"Good morning sunshine."

Rolling back, lying flat, Neal blinks up into the smiling face of Peter Burke.

"Morning." He frowns, not daring to move again. "What's going on?"

Peter doesn't move or lose the smile. "How you feeling?"

"Not what I asked." Slowly looking around, eyes adjusting to the dim light, heat burns his cheeks when the dresser comes into view. "This is your room."

"Yes," Peter turns his attention back to the newspaper crossword in his hand, "you decided you weren't happy with the sofa."

Worried gaze fixed to the ceiling, Neal can feel his heart race as he tries and, for the third night in a row, fails to remember anything. "Did I do anything else?"

Mouth dry, pressure building in his chest Neal pulls himself up and slumps against the headboard swallowing convulsively.

"Ransacked my closet looking for this." Peter holds up what Neal identifies as a birthday card, his expression matching his tone for gentleness.

Neal eyes it speculatively and reaches out. "I sent you that for your 40th birthday."

"Big day." Peter nods.

"The first one I ever sent you." He holds it with both hands, eyes glued to the card pretending to study the message when in fact he's focusing on regulating his breathing.

"I remember." A smile touches Peter's lips. "You called me old."

"I was 23, everyone over 30 was old." He manages to smile back, in between little gasps for air. "I'm more mature now."

"It was seven years ago."

"So, you're seven years older." He returns, letting Peter snatch the card back.

They slip into silence, sitting side by side, Peter lying on top of the covers looking worried and Neal underneath trying so very hard to appear the picture of calm.

"I've been looking into your time in prison." Peter hedges, pausing to see his reaction. "You got a lot of attention."

"I had fans." Neal giggles.

He knows it makes him look unhinged and he knows Peter can see right through him. He internally asks himself why then is he's working so hard at keeping up the façade, which raises a further question of why Peter doesn't just call him out on it.

"One of those fans was Amber Terrell."

His breathing had been calming down until he heard that. "I don't remember her."

"No reason why you should, she used a pseudonym."

"How did you get to that from a birthday card?"

Peter reaches for a stack of files Neal hadn't seen sequestered on the other side of the bed. "These are your prison records. I got Jones to bring them over first thing this morning."

"On a Saturday." Neal frowns.

"You don't get to judge me." Peter mock glares, sneaking a worrying glance at Neal when he thinks he's not looking. "Plus, I might add, it's your fault for sleeping in so late, otherwise I would have gotten them myself."

Neal opens his mouth to refute but is waylaid by Peter's last comment. "Late? What time is it?"

"After nine. You clearly needed to sleep. Given your city-wide escapades this week I'm not surprised."

"Yeah well at least I know why I've been so tired recently I guess," Neal grumbles at the reminder of what looking at his tracking data yesterday had uncovered, before pulling himself up short for getting distracted from the question he really wanted answering, "but none of that explains why I'm sharing your bed?"

"We're not sharing." Peter corrects loftily. "You wandered up here. I was advised not to wake you, so I followed and when you decided to make yourself comfy I stayed to keep you out of trouble."

"You were worried about me." Neal smiles, really smiles, teeth and all.

"I was concerned about my wife's jewellery."

Peter smiles too, though less brazenly, he can see even though he tries to hide it, which makes Neal feel all warm inside. "Whatever you need to tell yourself." His smile quickly drops, "Wait," a worried frown takes over, "who advised you?"

…

"Okay, what?"

Neal is seated on the sofa, staring up at the two men standing before him, side by side in an odd alliance.

"We're worried about you." Mozzie answers after a long pause, looking to Peter before speaking.

"And?" The frown he's had in place since being informed Mozzie was downstairs and unsupervised in Peter's house only deepens. "I'm worried about me. That doesn't explain this." He points, encompassing the two of them, together.

"Oh this?" Mozzie looks aghast at Peter. "This is temporary, I'm not in league with the suits I swear."

"Okay enough." Peter walks over to Neal and drops into the arm chair, "I don't care what little games you two play in your off hours, in fact I don't want to know. Right now, the rules have changed and if we're going to keep you safe and out of prison we could use his help."

"I do want to help." Mozzie implores, not having moved from his ridged stance.

Neal looks between his friends, the only two people he can be sure will never double cross or sell him out. "I don't want any of you to get hurt."

He looks to Peter when he says this, imploring him to understand. Memories of Mozzie in the hospital after being shot, Peter losing his badge, all because of him and his research into the music box. Neal knows Peter won't back off no matter what and he's secretly very glad he doesn't have to go through this alone, but Peter is a trained FBI agent, deceptively physically strong and an excellent fighter. Not that he'll ever admit to feeling inferior of course. Still, Neal's very aware he and Mozzie can't fight for shit, running away having always been their best form of self-defence.

"I can protect you," Peter's reaches over and grips his hands, which Neal hadn't realised had started shaking. "Both of you."

…

Peter looks to Havisham, instructing him with his eyes to get the hell over here.

"Oh, right." Mozzie mutters, out loud, but meant only for him. "Suit's right." Joining Neal on the couch, "I mean in the sense that I can help, and I can keep everything in the background, stealth and secrecy are my middle names."

"I can actually attest to that." Peter grumbles, recalling the heart attack from Mozzie's home invasion last night.

Neal's eyes are distant, the shaking not as pronounced but still present. Peter looks over his head at Mozzie. He's pretty sure they can both guess what Neal's thinking, only Peter's convinced that they each advocate very different solutions. He needs to nip this in the bud now.

"Neal," Peter starts softly, "I know what you're thinking, and I want you to stop."

A blink and visible swallow are the only indicators he heard.

"Neal," he repeats.

The chin ducks, touching his heaving chest. There's no sound but Peter's sure that's because Neal's working very hard at keeping it all in. Havisham's watching on but makes no move, his lack of response telling Peter he also sees the struggle and has no idea what to do about it.

"Running isn't the answer Neal." Peter goes in for the kill, pinning Havisham with his no-nonsense glare.

There's a minor change in Mozzie's facial expression, an indication of surprise that could easily have gone unnoticed. Not surprise that Neal was thinking of running, surprise that Peter knew he was thinking of running and that he knows Mozzie would find a way to facilitate that if Neal wanted him to.

The shaking isn't stopping, is in fact getting worse. There's sweat beading on Neal's forehead, fever induced possibly, but could also be a reaction to the fragile emotions sure to be churning, creating self-doubt and allowing confusion to run rampant. Calling him out may have made things worse in the short term, but Peter stands by his belief that they need to be clear from the start, no matter how much it hurts.

Neal sniffs, frantically blinks and sniffs some more, but all the will power in the world can't stop the inevitable. The dam that's been steadily weakening over the last two days eventually breaks bringing with it a flood, and he collapses in on himself uttering a desperate and broken ' _Sorry_ '.

There's no hesitation on Peter's part. He slips to the floor on his knees and pulls him close, wrapping both arms tight around the quivering body. Neal's uninjured cheek resting on his shoulder and facing the stairs, Peter rocks them gently, pressing a light kiss into his hair, a natural move that doesn't even need thinking about. Havisham is watching, sitting silent sentry. Peter's own raw emotions are near the surface, but he keeps them efficiently under wraps. He'll call El later. Looking over at Mozzie his intense gaze makes his demand clear. A responding tilt of a bold head communicates an agreement.

Their alliance is tentative and as fragile as Neal right now, but it's important they make it work. If Neal runs, Peter won't be able to save him.

….

Diana walks into White Collar a little after eight Saturday morning. She couldn't sleep and Christie had left around six for her twelve-hour shift, so it made sense to come in and try to do something productive instead of lolling around at home feeling useless all day. Jones appears an later, looking much more relaxed than she feels and it sparks a fire of envy within her. If it wasn't for the gym clothes she'd swear he was just turning into work for a normal weekday.

"What you doing here?"

"Could ask you the same." Jones grins, "you know it's the weekend, right?"

"I couldn't sleep." Diana admits, never one for caring what others thought. "Figured I could be productive here. What's that?"

Jones looks to the keys in his hand. "This? These are keys to the holy grail."

Diana levels him with a 'no really' look.

He laughs. "Agent Burke asked me to pick up and drop of some records. I was headed straight home, but then realised I had nothing else to do today."

They share a 'isn't it sad?' look, but neither are the type to lament on how their lives have played out. Both chose a profession where the demands on their personal lives are high, Diana doesn't regret any part and she's pretty sure Jones feels the same.

"What records?" She distracts, tone light yet purposeful.

"Prison records. He did apologise that he couldn't get it himself."

"You think Caffrey's giving him trouble?"

"I think Caffrey was asleep. He said something about not wanting to wake him."

"This whole sleepwalking thing. You buy it?"

"Look I don't know. But I've learnt that if Agent Burke believes something, then he's most likely right."

"You don't trust Caffrey."

"Do you?" Jones laughs.

"I agree with the boss. Caffrey's no killer."

"Doesn't mean mistakes don't happen. Neal may not have pulled the trigger…"

"But if he was involved in the robbery then he's guilty no matter what."

Diana falls silent. Peter's relationship with Neal is unique. She'd been surprised on returning from Washington just how close the pair had become in only six months. Jones had filled her in on how Peter treated Neal more like his kid than a resource. The protectiveness was obvious and easily explained, that was part of the C.I handler relationship. Neal wasn't trained, didn't carry a weapon or from what Diana could tell even knew how to fight – not with his fists anyway. Neal was Peter's responsibility at the end of the day, but there was also that patient, nurturing side which was rare to see. Addressing his junior agents Peter was always stern and to the point, boundaries and expectations were clear. He was a strict yet fair boss who engendered a good sense of morale. But when it came to Neal he was something else. Peter coddled Neal. Shielded him from danger, worried like a parent whenever he was out of his sight. That investment in his safety and wellbeing went way beyond obligation of the job. Peter cared about Neal on a personal level, had made him a part of his family. She worried if Neal had been willingly involved in any part of this it was going to destroy her boss and friend, not just his career, his entire life.

The phone rings up in Burke's office, knocking her ruminations out of her head. She call connects it to her line.

"What is it?" Jones asks seeing her face drop halfway through the one-sided conversation.

Diana puts the handset down. "That was the clinic. Bloodwork came back…"

"And?"

"Caffrey was positive for Psilocybin."

…

"Magic mushroom's." Mozzie blinks, "Huh. Explains a lot."

Peter hangs up on Diana. "Yeah, but not everything."

"Like the memory loss," Mozzie points out, "plus psychedelics don't tend to make you depressed." He fetches himself a fresh wine glass from the cabinet. "Also, how do you think he was dosed without him knowing?"

"One problem at a time." Peter walks back over to his paperwork laden kitchen table and takes a seat, eyeing the glass.

"I think clearer when my mind is relaxed, sue me."

Peter isn't going to comment. "According to the clinic Neal had to have ingested the mushrooms within fifteen hours of the bloods being taken to show up on the test. Bloods were taken in the ER early hours of Thursday morning. Where were you Wednesday night?"

"Hey! I didn't do it." Mozzie starts to shout, spilling his wine over one of Peter's old files.

"I know that." Peter huffs, motioning with his hand to keep it down. "He left here around nine, said he was heading straight home. Did you see him?"

"No," Mozzie goes silent.

"What?" Peter snaps, persuading him to talk by snagging and withholding the Merlot.

"Fine." Mozzie takes the bottle back and finishes his pour. "Neal's been … off, the last few nights."

"Off how?"

"Tired. Real, real tired." Mozzie offers him the wine, but Peter abstains, opting to stick to his coffee. "Like falling asleep at the table tired. He said he wasn't feeling well, thought he had a cold."

"We've already confirmed from his anklet data that the sleepwalking, if that's what it is, has been going on more than just the last couple of nights."

"What do you mean if?"

Peter mulls over how much of his own theories to share with Mozzie. "How come Neal managed to avoid being seen by June or the staff every time he left? How did he know not to leave his radius?"

"You think he's faking?"

"I think not remembering doesn't automatically mean he was also unaware at the time." Something clicks in Peter's head. "You said hallucinogens don't make people depressed?"

"The exact opposite."

"What if under the influence of Psilocybin Neal witnessed the murder that night?"

"Neal hates guns." Mozzie shoots back, jabbing his finger in the air.

"If the victim was shot in front of him-"

"A bad trip. That can cause depression, anxiety, paranoia, sleep disturbance." He counts them off on his hand. "It fits!"

"A bad trip still doesn't explain why Neal doesn't remember what he's been up to every night previously." Peter pauses, staring at Havisham.

"Yeah," Mozzie turns shifty. "I have a theory about that."

…

Neal wakes up. This time he recognises he's on the sofa, covered with a blanket. It's simultaneously comforting and unnerving. Waking up in the same spot he remembers falling asleep is good. Remembering how he fell asleep has his face flushing and prompts him to pull the blanket over his head with the desire to hide for the rest of his life.

"Oh no you don't." Peter appears and swipes it back, not only revealing his still teared stained face, but exposing his bare arms to the cold.

Neal braves a look upward, "you're mean."

"As insults go I've heard you do better."

"I'm sick, and probably dying." He snatches the crocheted woollen back and wraps it around his shoulders.

Peter just smiles down at him, "No you're not." He forces Neal to sit up by grabbing and pulling on his arm. "Besides I have good news." He drops to sits beside him.

"They've caught the killer and I'm free to go?" He covers his face with both palms, trying to rub the tightness out of his eyes, hissing when he catches his damaged cheek.

Peter waits a beat, eyeing Neal carefully. "We think we know why you're so…. Not you."

Neal turns his head, looking inquisitive between spread fingers.

"The clinic found Psilocybin in your blood."

"What?" Neal drops his hands altogether, embarrassment instantly forgotten he stares at Peter, demanding more answers.

"We think…" Peter fidgets, looking to the ceiling. "Neal it's possible you've been drugged."

"By who? And why?"

"If we're right the Psilocybin is probably part of a drug cocktail, one that also induces memory loss." Peter shifts around on the sofa to face him. "This is good news." He leans in, squeezes Neal's leg. "Whoever dosed you is most likely our killer, or at the very least involved with the killer."

"How'd you know I didn't take whatever it is willingly?"

"Did you?"

"No."

"Then it's good news." Peter makes it sound so simple.

"Wait," Neal taps down on the smile wanting to break free. "You believe me?"

Peter leaves seconds of empty air between Neal's question and his answer, making him regret asking.

"I believe you."

Neal does smile then, he feels like crap, everything hurts from his stomach to his head, but Peter believes him and he hasn't had to do anything other than give his word. Although it feels good, really good to be believed, there's a tenseness about Peter that's dampening the moment, the way the skin pinches around his eyes. Something's bothering him and he's trying hard to hide it.

"You think it's GHB don't you?" Neal asks gently.

"I think it's a possibility." Peter breaths out heavily. "It causes memory loss, metabolises quickly, rarely shows up on blood tests and is easy to get hold of, Neal-"

"Oh god," He folds in on himself, hands covering his face once again. "I'm not going back to the hospital." Neal can hear Peter laughing and it rankles him enough to risk looking up. "I'm glad my plight amuses you."

"Many things amuse me, this not much so." Peter calms, offering a comforting pat to his back. "I've just never seen this melodramatic side of you before."

"Blame it on the drugs." Neal retorts without thinking.

The grin falls from his face and he launch's up off the sofa, propelling himself to the other side of the room.

Peter's serious eyes are on him. "Look I'm not taking you back to the hospital."

Neal steadies himself against the mantle. "You're not?"

"No."

"Good. Because I wouldn't go anyway."

That matter settled, the dizziness caused by his sudden movement fading, Neal tries to focus on what he does want to do. Somebody's been using him, using his skills, using his body and mind without his consent. Whatever form that took he isn't going to stand around and cry about it. He needs to catch whoever's been pulling his strings. If their aim was to get away with this, so far, they've done a terrible job. He may not know much and be hours away from being thrown back in jail, but at least he knows these feelings, the desire to burst into tears, the fear, anxiety and confusion - none of its really him. It's the after effect of an unknown drug cocktail that's conveniently left little trace.

"Moz?" Neal looks around the living room but can't see his friend anywhere.

"He left not long ago, he's working an angle." Peter eyes him.

Neal nods, glad while he may not be completely brain functional others are picking up the slack.

They drop into companionable silence, which would have been nice if it wasn't for Peter's still tense face. "What else aren't you telling me?"

Peter sighs, confirming his suspicion. "Think you're up to a car ride?"

"Will it help?"

"It might."

"Let's go."

…

They pull up on the side of the road, stopping a block away from Riverside drive.

"Where are we?"

"West 148th street."

Neal looks up at the street sign. "I can read. Why are we here?"

"You been here before?"

"You know I have." He points up the street. "There's the pastry bar I always go to on the way home from work."

"Always go?"

"Schedule allowing." Neal shrugs, "they have excellent donuts."

"When did you start?"

"I don't know, a few weeks ago, after the Architect case." Neal stares at Peter. Not willing to verbally acknowledge his chosen method of managing his grief. "I've been so tired recently I've gone every night this week just for the sugar rush."

"You've eaten donuts every night for dinner?" Peter glares.

"Yeah." Neal rolls his eyes up and to the side, "except Wednesday, you brought me to yours for dinner. Elizabeth made gelato."

Peter stares without blinking. "I hate you." He mutters, undoing his seat belt.

"What, why?" Neal follows Peter's lead and climbs out the car.

Peter looks him up and down, as if it should be obvious, "Never mind," he shakes his head when Neal continues to be clueless and waits for him to catch up before walking again. "We were so fixed on where you didn't remember going, we overlooked where you did."

"You think someone drugged my donuts?" Neal laughs and frowns. "How would they even do that?"

"If they're using a liquid cocktail all they'd have to do is inject it into the pastry, follow you home and wait for the drugs to take effect."

It sounded so much like something Mozzie would say Neal had to double check it was Peter walking the sidewalk next to him. "Not exactly a full proof plan, what if I didn't eat it all? And the effects wouldn't be immediate because it would take time to enter my bloodstream. Slipping it in my coffee would be a more effective delivery. Plus, why go to all this trouble for a small-time gallery robbery? And why me?"

"All excellent questions." Peter grins and points at him.

"But?" They come to a stop outside the bohemian style pastry bar.

"No buts." The grin drops. "I don't have the answers, but we have to start somewhere."

Neal senses the tension coming off Peter in waves and decides to do something about it. "I thought you said no buts?"

It takes Peter a second to react to his lame joke, but it hits its mark, the tension eases.

"I'm hungry. You?"

He really isn't but understands this isn't about cheering him up with his favourite treat. Neal isn't even sure donuts are his favourite. He's been craving them recently, but then after everything that's happened the last few days he's lost any trust in his own judgement. He could be craving the donuts because someone has made him crave them. Every choice, thought or feeling he's had since whenever this began could have been influenced by someone else. He was no stranger to control, but it was usually him in the driver's seat, getting people to trust in him, believe what he wanted them to. Neal has never to his knowledge been on this side of the con before and quite frankly it's terrifying. He always thought no one really got hurt by his crimes, but if this experience was teaching him anything, it's that every crime has a victim, and the loss suffered isn't just material.

"Neal, over here." Peter clicks his fingers at him, commanding his presence at his side.

Neal scowls, unhappy at being summoned the same way Peter entices Satchmo for a walk but does as he's told anyway and takes the few steps forward towards the counter.

"What can I get you?" A cheery young man asks them.

Peter flashes his badge, "You know him?" and points at Neal.

Neal's face heats with the complete disregard Peter's showing for subtlety. The young man initially looks puzzled, but quickly slots into customer service mode with ease.

"Er, well maybe. Your Chocolate Cream Delicious, am I right?"

"What?" Neal blinks.

He's having a really hard time focusing, most likely the stress catching up with him once again.

"I think he means your donut of choice." Peter's pointing at the display case filled with flavours of unimaginable sugary goodness.

"Oh, right." Neal grabs the counter to steady himself. "Sure."

Peter asks his identified donut suppler and his co-worker who apparently also remembers his frequent visits several intrusive questions. Neal tries to listen, but eventually zones out. He's hot all of a sudden, which makes no sense what with it being the middle of winter and all. They probably have the heating cranked up way too high.

"You should turn down the heat. Not good for the donuts."

Peter gives him a strange sideways look, muttering something to the two servers about him owning a bakery once and shuffles him out the door.

"Hey, you okay?"

Neal opens his eyes to find the wall he thought he was holding onto and leaning up against was actually Peter. Releasing the intense grip he has on Peter's forearms Neal struggles to right himself and stumbles off down the sidewalk in the direction of the car.

Peter's cell starts to ring, he shows Neal the unrecognised number before answering cautiously, putting it on speaker.

_"Suit, I got some information."_

"Mozzie?"

Neal, discovering himself holding a paper bag containing a recently purchased donut at arm's length as if it might bite, gives him a look of complete surprise.

_"Don't worry I'll be dumping this phone the second Neal is in the clear."_

"Good to know. Meet us at Neal's place, we're heading there now."

…

"Hey Moz."

Peter meets Mozzie's gaze as Neal greets and moves passed him, through his kitchen into the dressing room without even a second glance.

"He okay?" Mozzie asks.

"Yeah, he'll be fine."

What Peter doesn't say is clear on his face. They're here to pack a few more things before heading back to Brooklyn. The couple of nights looking to be turning into a more permanent arrangement as the hours move on with very little useable progress.

Taking a seat at the table they wait. Mozzie tells Peter what he's found out about potential drugs. Peter fills Mozzie in on his theory about the pastry shop.

"Drugged donuts, seriously?"

"Hey it's a start."

"You don't seem convinced."

"I'm not, talking to the two behind the counter nothing stood out. I didn't spook them like you'd expect if they were drugging their customers."

"You thought it wasn't just Neal?"

"I don't know what to think. The Terrell connection could be a coincidence. For all I know this is a scam to get people to empty their bank accounts."

"And you think this thing with Neal and the gallery could be wrong place wrong time?"

"Maybe? I don't know. I'm grabbing at straws here."

"You're grabbing at something." Mozzie agrees.

"Well I don't see you making much progress." Peter throws back.

"Is it my fault there are a seemingly endless number of drug combinations out there that could cause the symptoms Neal's experiencing?"

Peter holds up his hand and shakes his head, seeing no point in continuing this conversation. They've both reached a dead end today and they know it.

"Look suit," Mozzie draws his attention across the table. "I just think you're trying too hard."

"Would you prefer I slack off?"

"No, but what I'm trying to say is you're coming at this like a friend. You want to protect Neal and believe me I'm very grateful, but I think what Neal needs right now, as much as it pains me to admit to such a thing-"

"Mozzie spit it out for god's sake, it's been a long couple of days."

"Okay, okay." Mozzie grounds himself. "What Neal needs most isn't Peter Burke friend and patriarch. It's FBI Agent Burke, the man who relentlessly chased and threw him in jail."

Peter takes a deep breath and blows it out slowly. "I know, I know I'm too close, that's why Jones and Diana are following up on the Hayes and Terrell connection, but it's hard not to be when the kid's an emotional train wreck and crying in your arms. What if the evidence points to Neal, I can't send him back, not on these chargers. They'll throw him in solitary or worse. He won't survive a second go around, I know it."

"You really do care about him." Mozzie looks at Peter as if seeing him for the first time.

"Yeah, yeah I do." Peter says, sounding like it's a revelation, even to himself.

He's always had a thing for Neal. Not in a weird sense, but there's something, a feeling that makes this particular criminal, out of all those he has arrested over the years, stand out to Peter. A feeling that Neal can be good, under the right circumstances. Sending him to jail the first time Peter felt justification, he'd done his job. But he also felt immense relief. That day was the first time in three years he could finally relax, knowing the kid he had come to like was safe and being taken care of in a federal prison where conditions were good and violence amongst inmates was low. He wasn't committing any crimes, getting involved with killers or putting himself in harm's way with dangerous stunts. Tough love his own dad would have called it. And in taking his deal four years later Peter had seen another opportunity, one to help shape a kid who had clearly lost his way at some point. Neal's confidence acts were just that. No one risked their well-being as often or as frivolously as Neal did if they had an ounce of self-worth. Survival is what matters to Neal, what drives him even now, but once that motivation's gone, what then?

"We need to Protect him Mozzie, I don't want to lose him."

...

Neal thought walking into his own place would feel great, but instead it feels cold and strangely scary. He walks passed Mozzie, unable to meet his eye for fear he'll see there's nothing there. See he's little more than an empty shell, floating in the ocean, at the mercy of the waves dragging him away from shore.

Now, standing in his dressing room surrounded by suits, the irony is not lost on him. Four years ago, he risked everything just to see her one last time. Knew walking into that warehouse there would be no escape. What he hadn't told Mozzie back then was he was tired of running. The Burmese jewel heist planning was a cry for help he hadn't realised at the time. It would never have worked out. He'd have either died during the execution or in jail. He had no powerful father to call in favours. Neal had no one. He'd have died young and alone, miles from anywhere and no one would've known or cared.

Neal walks up and down row after row of fancy suits and wonders. Is this really him, or is this him living as someone else still? Jumping into someone else's shoes to hide from himself. Byron and June, Peter and Elizabeth, he envy's them. He's pretty sure although Byron's gone what he and June had still lives on. Even Mozzie is an individual, has his own identity and is happy with it. What does Neal have, truly have that's his? He's been playing the role so long, had so many different names and aliases – some his choice, some not – that it feels like all he does is live other people's lives. For all his world travels, alleged forgery's, thefts and schemes, he's still not a grown up. Neal left home at eighteen, after fifteen years living as a kid that didn't exist. He may have claimed back his original name, but he's been on the run from who he really is his entire life.

...

It's quiet. Too quiet.  _Shit._

"Neal?"

Peter jumps up in a flurry, Mozzie following on his heels. They discover the back room empty.

"Goddamn it." Peter whirls on Mozzie. "Where is he?"

"I don't know." The little man shrugs, backing up.

"You sure?" Peter snaps, face fierce and turning an impressive shade of claret.

"As hard as it is to believe, I'm with you on this suit. Neal isn't himself-," Mozzie freezes, hand held high to halt any further anger fuelled retorts. "-maybe he stepped out for air?"

"How? There's no other way out of here." Peter doesn't like Mozzie's look. "There's another way out of here isn't there?"

"Well-"

"Mozzie!"

"Yes." Mozzie walks over and removes a false wall from the back of one of the wardrobes, revealing a passageway. "In Neal's defence, he only found it after your guys did the once over on the mirror room."

"God damnit." Peter pulls out his phone. "I gotta call this in."

"What? No! They'll send the marshal's after him and look at the damage they did the last time they got their hands on him."

"Mozzie." Peter holds up his hands in frustration. "Neal isn't supposed to be out of my sight, he doesn't even have a radius anymore. The only reason the anklet won't signal is because he's out with me. If I don't call it in I will lose every ounce of credibility to help him get out of this mess."

Mozzie sighs. "Just remember he's not himself. Ordinarily Neal wouldn't run unless he had a plan."

"I know, that's what worries me." Peter taps in the final digit and the call connects. "Reece. Yeah sorry I know it's the weekend, but we have a problem."

 


	7. Chapter 7

 

"There's a warrant out for Caffrey's arrest." Hughes announces from behind his desk the second Peter enters his office. "For the murder of the gallery assistant."

"What?" Peter freezes in the doorway, fingers still grasping the handle. "No! Reece, they can't do that-"

"Peter it's already done." Hughes slices his hand through the air, pointing at the still open door. "What do you want me to do?"

Peter bites his tongue and shuts the glass carefully with both hands, giving equal care and attention to his answer. "We could take over the investigation. Get Ruiz from violent crimes to-"

Reece was already shaking his head. "Face facts. Caffrey's cut his anklet and disappeared. He's a fugitive and the marshals are responsible for bringing him in. As soon as he's in custody we can look at his case but until then we have to follow the law. The rules are different here, you know that."

Peter grips the back of the visitor's chair. "He didn't do this. It isn't right."

"Peter, he made his choice. Caffrey could have stayed with you while the DA built the case, he chose to run. That says something."

"They're bringing him in on murder charges. He'll be put on the secure wing, with rapists and serial killers. He's just a kid Reece and you know he won't be safe."

"He's a kid who's been accused of murder and still has time to serve for his escape last year. You get the evidence to say otherwise and we'll have a leg to stand on."

"By the time I get the evidence it'll be too late."

Hughes sighs, regarding his agent carefully. "You care this strongly about him?"

"I do." Peter nods.

"And you really believe he's innocent in all this?"

"He's not a murderer." He looks Reece in the eye, voice firm in his conviction. "I'd stake my career on it."

Hughes pauses. "I'll make a call." Peter starts to thank him, "But no promises."

…

"What's happening?" Diana asks the second Peter walks into the bullpen.

"Hughes is requesting Neal be placed in our custody when he's found instead of the marshal's." He sighs and shrugs, "It's the best he can do."

"Yeah and in the meantime Neal's out there and we need to find him." Mozzie jumps in, whispering despite the office being empty except for them.

"I'm open to suggestions?" Peter doesn't even bother with the 'you don't have to involve yourself' speech to Diana or Jones, who are both at work on a Saturday. They wouldn't be here if they didn't want to help.

"So Caffrey's running," Jones starts, giving Peter the raised eyebrow, asking, 'so what's the problem?'. "You've found him twice before."

Peter pauses, staring beyond the walls of White Collar. Yes, he has, and he will again. "Jones, assemble the Harvard crew."

"Boss?" Diana frowns.

"Caffrey's on the run. He's as much our problem as the marshals, right?" Peter smiles as he backtracks, jogging up the stairs into his own office.

Jones shares a grin and goes to his desk to make the calls leaving Diana with Mozzie looking confused.

"Neal running makes this an official FBI case." Diana explains, following Jones' path to her own desk. "That means we not only get to look for Caffrey on the books, but officially look into why he's running."

"Oh, oh." Mozzie chases after her. "So, Neal running is a good thing."

"Peter's using it to his advantage." Diana stops him, tone serious. "I think he would have preferred something less nuclear given the choice."

Mozzie breaks into his own version of a smile. "But nuclear is what we do best."

…

Peter steps through his front door a little after six that evening. The house is unusually cold and dark, to be expected with Elizabeth away and Satchmo having his own unplanned vacation with the dog sitter, but Peter checks and double checks the doors and windows anyway before picking up his cell and calling El.

_"Hi hon, how are things going?"_

Peter hesitates, tempted to lie. "Not good."

_"Oh? What has Neal done now?"_

"Neal cut his anklet." He blurts, having been dying to talk to her all day but not having the time amongst briefing the Harvard crew and keeping an eye on the marshal's progress. "The marshals are looking for him, if I can't prove he didn't commit the break-in and murder he's going down El and there's nothing I can do to stop it. I've failed him."

_"Don't say that. What about the case? Have you made any progress?"_

"Some." Peter pulls himself together. "Hon, I wouldn't normally ask but that sleep specialist you left details for, does he owe you a favour?"

_"She most certainly does."_

"We think Neal's been dosed with a drug combination that's made him susceptible to suggestion, amongst other things. He isn't thinking clearly. I need some quick and free advice." Off book is what he means, because he doesn't need to be building a case for the prosecution.

_"I'll contact her now, tell her to expect your call. He'll be okay. You'll find him Peter, you always do."_

"Thanks hon." He signs off and waits for her text to tell him to make contact.

Peter calls the number in Pier Pont and after dropping El's name a woman with a heavy Iranian accent comes on the line. Turns out she's more than happy to offer some pro-bono advice to show her gratitude for El planning not one, but all five of her daughter's Weddings. The doctor backs up what Havisham said, confirming waking a sleepwalker up can cause extreme anxiety and confusion, making Peter feel like a complete heel for his handling of the incident out on his lawn the other night.

 _"You're saying he's never sleepwalked before?"_  The doctor asks after she's done giving him the basics.

"Not as far as he knows." Peter paces his living room, unable to keep still for long, tapping a pen against the bookshelf each time he passes.

_"Has your friend been tired a lot recently?"_

"Yeah. He's had a cold, been running a fever."

_"A viral infection can also effect sleep. What about medications?"_

Peter fills his cheeks with air and lets it out in one big puff. "He's been taking some over the counter stuff and the doctor he saw the other day prescribed him Ambien. That's it." He pauses, carefully wording his next question. "But hypothetically, say someone was dosed with a drug cocktail including Psilocybin, could they be convinced to do something they wouldn't normally do and not remember it?"

 _"I'm an expert on parasomnias, not narcotics Agent Burke, but a true sleepwalker interacts with the world around them without consciousness, so if someone were to say, touch them or otherwise draw their focus, then it's possible that person could then have control through manipulation. If the sleepwalker were under the influence of mind altering narcotics, then it's possible they'd be even more susceptible."_  The doctor pauses.  _"You say your friend has already seen a doctor?"_

"Yeah, Friday." Peter didn't need to verbalise the why to know there was a point to the question.

_"With a psychosis as deep as you've described any doctor who saw the patient would have been able to spot signs of recent drug use straight away."_

"How?" Peter momentarily freezes, dread filling his insides, settling in his stomach heavy and stagnant.

_"Physically the patient's eyes would be dilated, an increased heart rate, high blood pressure..."_

"They said he was fine."

_"I very much doubt that. There is simply no way his stats would have been within normal range if as you seem to suspect drugs are the cause for his recent change in behaviour."_

Peter Resumes his movements, taking long, measured, purposeful strides now instead of the restless shuffling he'd previously been engaged in. "How would someone get him to take the drugs without him knowing?"

_"Administering drugs to a person without them knowing is unfortunately fairly easy if the right concoction is used. You'd be looking for someone with good pharmaceutical knowledge so as to make the cocktail odourless and colourless in order to add to a drink or food, as well as an understanding of polysomnography's if an unconscious waking state was the goal."_

"Any idea of what kind of drugs could cause these symptoms?"

_"Hypothetically?"_

"Of course."

_"Well most over the counter medications can have these side effects if mixed correctly. Benzodiazepines and diazepam can result in memory loss. Any hypnotic class medication can result in sleepwalking as a side effect, especially if taken in high doses."_

Peter quickly thanks the doctor and hangs up. He's still, fixed in position staring but not seeing, for as long as it takes to connect the thoughts in his mind and come up with the frightening theory that Neal may not have been as safe as he should have been while staying with him. Launching up the stairs at speed Peter barrels into the guestroom and tears it apart. He finds a bag of toiletries stuffed under the bed, emptying it over the sheets without grace Peter consoles himself that Neal can yell at him about the mess later. Knocking aside the pricey aftershave and several bottles of hair product Peter doesn't want to even try to understand the use of, his hands land on the packet of Ambien Neal had been prescribed by Doctor Clarke stuffed inside a plain white paper bag and alongside it a near empty bottle of Robitussin. Holding the familiar box in his hand brought back a memory or two from his own childhood. Pulling it out to examine he was going to assume the Ambien was just as it said on the script otherwise it would be too easy to trace back to her. The Robitussin however had a Walgreens price sticker stuck to its side. Assuming the medicine had been purchased when Neal started to feel under the weather, by the looks of how much was missing he'd been taking regular hits for the last few days. A thorough inspection of the bottle reveals, much to his distress, nothing unusual.

Peter starts laughing, hysterical and uncontrollable, the kind that comes in the epiphany moment of realisation. Prolonged exposure to Mozzie's paranoia has finally caused him to lose his mind!

What feels like an eternity later Peter does in fact calm down and starts repacking all of Neal's toiletries, hopefully well enough Neal with never notice and he won't have to explain this embarrassing episode. He's dropping the plethora of unnecessary products back into the black tie up bag when, upon grabbing the mouth wash he freezes. Later, when asked what made him check the child proof cap for the tiny pin prick of a hole noticeable if only you knew exactly what you were looking for, he'll say he was just being thorough, but truthfully, he doesn't know. Doesn't know why, out of all the other products he only checked the mouth wash. It doesn't make any sense, none of it. But it doesn't need to Peter reminds himself, unfreezing from his disbelief, it is what it is, and someone can explain it to him later. Right now, he's going to trust his gut.

Whipping his cell out of his back-pocket Peter speed dials Diana.

_"Boss,"_

"We need an arrest warrant for a Doctor Clarke at the Stonewall clinic." Peter quickly fills her in on his conversation with El's contact and what he's just uncovered. "If I'm right she's likely not working alone. Get Jones to look into everything we have on her, contacts, priors, the lot. There's got to be a motive in there somewhere."

_"Nail the bitch, got it."_

Peter smiles, glad she takes him at his word and doesn't question the craziness, "What's the situation there?"

He hears her hesitate down the line.  _"The marshals aren't cooperating. Peter as soon as he's found they're taking Neal straight to Rikers Island."_

All the colour drains from Peter's face at the very thought of Neal being held in New York's worst prison, a place where inmates are reportedly raped, abused and killed daily. "There a reason?"

 _"Flight risk."_  She swallows,  _"I'm sorry Boss."_

"No, it's okay, I know Hughes tried, it was a long shot even before Neal ran. Look-" Peter pauses, turns the contaminated bottle over in his hand, catching the price sticker. "Focus on Clarke, when we find Neal we need to be able to offer evidence of his innocence. I might not be able to keep him out of prison but dropping the murder chargers will help secure a better option than Rikers."

He quickly hangs up, not divulging the rest of his hastily decided plan. If he ends up going through with it, it could back fire spectacularly and cost him his badge in the process. If all does go to hell, he isn't dragging anyone else down with him.

…

Peter makes his way to the pharmacy near June's place. The one a quick check of Neal's credit card showed he made a transaction late Sunday evening. He'd already bagged and tagged the mouth wash and dropped it off with the F.B.I lab to run analysis. He'd gone in person to ensure a speedy return. If, as Peter suspects, Neal has been unknowingly dosing himself with whatever extras where in the bottle, they needed to know. God knows what unknown damage had been done – was still being done by all accounts, while Neal is on the run and likely not in his right mind enough to seek help if he needs it.

Walking through the doors, forcing calm he approaches the counter.

"How can I help you?"

The man behind the counter is around Peter's age. A little greyer perhaps, but the same crinkles around the eyes he's come used to seeing in his bathroom mirror every morning. Working with Neal daily it won't be long before the grey starts to take over he's sure, a week hasn't gone by where he hasn't had a heart attack or three thanks to one stunt or another.

"Sir?"

Peter blinks, the man is looking at him with concern and Peter regrets not taking the time to shower and change first. Three disturbed nights in a row, he's probably had about as much sleep as Neal this week. He must look like hell.

"FBI," Peter flashes his badge, "I'm here about this man." He shows Clive the pharmacist, as identified by his name badge, a picture of Neal. "Have you seen him?"

Clive gives the photo a long look. It's not a mug shot. Though that would have been much easier, given the circumstances Peter felt wrong treating Neal like a criminal and instead snagged a random one he happened to have already lying around the house. When he and El started displaying pictures of his C.I around their living room Peter didn't know, but it was thought to ponder on another day.

"I'm not sure to be honest with you." Clive chuckles, smiling at the photo. "We get a lot of young men in here. He in trouble?"

"He's missing." Peter's curt and to the point, looking around for cameras and finding one positioned above the cashiers till. "Does that work?"

Clive shows Peter through to the back room and allows him access to all the security footage for the past week. Peter takes over the controls, identifying Sunday's footage and begins fast-forwarding to the time of Neal's transaction.

"Is he yours?"

Peter looks up at the odd question, attention removed only briefly from the fast-moving video.

Hanging at his side, leaning slightly against the doorjamb of the cramped little room Clive points at the pocket Peter slipped Neal's photo back into. "The boy." He states as if that explains everything.

"I'm an FBI agent." Peter stresses with a frown.

"FBI agents can be parents', can't they?"

He isn't sure if Clive's a little odd or if his perceptions are off due to the sleep deprivation and stress of this whole situation, but he hasn't got the time or the mental capacity to work out what difference it makes who Neal is to him.

"He's my partner." Peter settles, sees the 'oh' forming on Clive's lips and quickly clears up the second misunderstanding of this little encounter, "not life partner, work partner, we work together, we're friends."

Friends. He's called Caffrey his friend before. Hasn't he? He said it to Kate once, in what turned out to be his final conversation with the women.

"You seem pretty worked up is all. For an FBI agent."

Clive's words break through his concentration and override Peter's own thoughts. Reminding him very much of Mozzie. "Do you by chance know a Mr Havisham?"

Clive opens his mouth and takes an inhale of breath. Peter's all set to hear the reply when out the corner of his eye he catches sight of what he's been looking for. Like a frog catching a fly, his fingers are quick and slick over the controls, depressing the button to allow the tape to play in real time, eyes glued to the grainy black and white image of Neal on the screen.

"What is it you're hoping to see?" Clive leans in over his shoulder.

"I don't know," Peter drawls, unsure why's he's even answering, not like he owes Clive answers.

On the tiny screen a snow sprinkled Neal walks into the store, the time stamp says 18:07. Not too late for a pharmacy visit. Peter tries to recall what he would have been doing at the time but comes up blank. It's not like Neal would have called to say he was out of mouth wash. Neal hadn't even mentioned he wasn't feeling well. It was El who'd called him out during dinner, and even then, he must have downplayed how crap he was feeling. Neal would tell him he's fine if he was missing limb as long as he could hide it.

On the tape Neal takes the mouthwash off the shelf, pays the lady cashier and exits, the whole affair lasting less than five minutes. He doesn't speak to anyone and no one speaks to him. Peter rewinds the footage, watches it three more times, conceding defeat on the fourth watch.

Falling backwards in the polyester wheelie chair, sending it knocking into the wall with a dejected sigh. "It was a long shot, anyway."

"You know I think I do know him." Clive perks up. "A nice lad. Lovely smile."

Peter can't help it, allowing a grin he chuckles, quietly and to himself. Saying Caffrey has a 'lovely smile' is like saying the Mona Lisa is a pretty neat painting. Neal's smile is his weapon and best line of defence. It can get him anything he wants. Peter's seen those pearly whites flashed at him many times but can count on one hand how often that smile has been genuine. When Neal really smiles it's softer, less dazzling, almost shy. Not a concept he thought he'd ever apply to Neal Caffrey, but there it is.

The tape is still playing, Peter sits forward prepared to turn it off and thank Clive for indulging a desperate FBI Agent when another figure walks out from behind the counter, in full view of the camera.

"Who's that?" Peter slams his hands down on the pause button, freezing the image.

"That's Kelly, she delivers and collects scripts for the local hospitals and clinics."

"She a nurse?"

Clive looks at him in surprise. "Nursing school I believe."

Peter pulls out his cell, muttering expletives under his breath, "Diana," he pauses long enough to thank Clive for his help and exits the small room. "You bring in Clarke?"

_"Jones has her in interrogation now. We were going to call you as soon as we got anything from her."_

"Well we got a new target, a Kelly-" belatedly realising he failed to gain a second name Peter turns back to Clive who had followed him back out into the main body of the store.

"Roland." Clive offers, looking and sounding more than a little flustered.

"You get that?"

Diana confirms, Peter gets all the pertinent information from Clive about Kelly Roland that he can and passes it on with instructions to get the warrant. He's heading out the door when Clive stops him.

"I hope you find your boy Agent Burke."

Peter looks over at Clive, fastening his coat he slowly nods his thanks and ducks out into the newly falling snow.

…

Neal doesn't know how long it's been since he snuck out of his own apartment, leaving his self-appointed guardians to fight over who gets wet nurse him next. The humiliation factor was high, but not the reason for his sudden and unplanned departure. Not the main reason anyway.

Right now, Neal can't think of why he's stumbling through the snowy streets of New York, apparently without direction. Coming to a sudden halt on the icy sidewalk, only just keeping his feet underneath him, Neal looks around as if seeing his surroundings for the first time. It's like he's just opened his eyes and realised he's miles from where he last remembers being. Looking up he can see the sky is grey, indicating a late hour or a snow storm moving in, maybe both. Glancing up and down the street there are people everywhere. Of course, it's New York, so that means very little, though most do look cold. Wrapped up in large coats and carrying numerous bags, bags filled with expensive things, things Neal would really like to-

_Focus Caffrey._

Peter's voice infiltrates his brain. So real and loud, wide eyes scan the nearest faces but all are strangers to him. Realising it as a voice in his head, always there to poke and prod and remind him of his every mistake, disappointment burrows its way inside Neal's chest, a physical ache so strong he momentarily forgets to breathe. He feels so disconnected, Neal doubts the reality he sees before his eyes. Gone are concerns of what time it is, they've been replaced with thoughts of what day is it? Fear and confusion driving his movements Neal spins, vision blurring the bright city lights into a rainbow stream of colour. Spying what he needs, he sprints across the street, heedless of the traffic coming at him in two directions over four lanes. By sheer luck his feet make landfall on the opposite sidewalk, sending him skidding into a Macy's worthy window display. A miniature New York City moving and bustling behind the glass is providing entertainment for the tourists as they pass by, but what stands out to Neal is the little ball waiting to drop with the date displayed proudly, a countdown to the final day of the year. He heave's a sigh, slumping until his forehead joins his hands on the cool, cold glass. It feels nice, reducing the pounding in his head Neal hadn't realised was there until it receded under the icy touch. Sensing the odd looks a few bystanders were throwing his way Neal fights his foggy mind, forces his muscles into action and stands to his full height. He straightens his suit jacket, belatedly realising though perfect for his frame is ill matched to the weather. A shiver wracks through him, suddenly he can feel the chill in the air, the snow melting as it settles in his hair. All combine, the cold and the pain sparking a desperate sense of longing. He misses the warmth of DeKalb Avenue. He misses his friend.

He needs to call Peter.

Patting his pockets reveals not his cell as he'd hoped, but inside the little pocket on the inside left breast Neal pulls out a fifty-dollar bill. Feeling a little stronger and slightly less fuzzy, with his goal fixed in mind Neal dashes into the crowd, pin-ponging off his fellow New Yorkers until he's physically knocked into a side street convenience store.

Handing over his note and leaving before getting his change, new active burner in hand Neal taps in the number he long ago committed to memory. As his fingers move agonisingly slow over the tiny keypad, numbers blurring in and out, Neal wonders why Peter's never changed his number in over eight years. A little of him hopes the reason has something to do with him.

Thinking about his neediness where Peter's concerned makes Neal feel young, vulnerable in a way he's not comfortable with. He can't say why he's always been so desperate for Peter's attention, but the voice in his head, which sounds just like Mozzie, teasingly whispers  _'daddy issues'_. Punching in the last digit he feels timid even now, like the idea of needing another person is something to be embarrassed about.

"You're late."

Neal's grip tightens on the phone, eyes fixed downward, not daring to turn around and look up in case the face that greets him does indeed match that familiar sweet voice, the one he remembers so clearly from their last conversation that wasn't through plexiglass.

"Kate?" You're dead, his mind supplies, cutting through the white noise that is the now ringing cell phone forgotten in his palm.

He feels a nick, a sharp scratch at the base of his neck and Neal slaps his free hand there, spinning to face his attacker. The sudden movement makes him dizzy, vision blurring in and out. Neal blinks away the spots and stumbles, expecting to knock into one of those rich people in their warm coats, but what he notices is there's no one around, no people, no cars. Everything is slightly out of focus, everything but the person standing before him, leaving Neal with a background of blending colours.

"I said you're late Neal." The sweet voice turns hard, drawing his eyes to where they need to go.

His gaze settles on her face. Vision zeroing in on the one person that can't possibly be there. His heart beats faster and harder in his chest, he can feel it in his head, hear it thudding a rhythmic pulse in his ears. Neal's field of vision narrows to unmeasurable parameters. Feeling like a tightrope walker where one step either side will cause him to lose his balance, Neal doesn't resist the cool hand that reaches out and takes the phone from his increasing lax grip.

…

"Jones, tell me you have good news." Peter answers his ringing cell, weaving in and out of traffic, trying to make it as fast as he can back to the FBI.

"I have news, don't know how good it is." Jones pauses, but when Peter doesn't speak continues with what he has to report. "Doctor Clarke appears to be in the clear. There's no connection to Terrell or Hayes and as annoying as she is she's confirmed you're right to be suspicious of the nurse."

"How?"

Jones explains that Clarke's insisting she technically didn't exam Caffrey herself, the nurse did, and she just went off her notes. Roland must have lied on his chart Peter concludes and orders Jones to inspect the records from the initial exam in the ER to see if they've been tampered with too.

"What about the lab, they got back to us yet?"

"That's the main reason for me calling. I have the report in front me… Peter it isn't good."

Peter pulls up outside the FBI minutes later and takes his time to walk from his car, trying to get his head around what Jones told him. It was ingenious really. To have Neal voluntarily take an overdose. Mixed in with the standard ingredients of the mouth wash was Psilocybin, Ambien and GHB. Neal had been dosing himself without realising it. They'd have to go through every consumable in Neal's apartment to be sure nothing else had been tampered with.

Peter was walking through the front doors of the FBI, thinking on the benefits of having a sleepy but suggestable conman under your control when his cell phone rings again.

_"Suit?"_

Peter stops dead, and instinctually finds a corner to stand in, out of earshot of security. "Where are you?"

_"Where are you?"_

"Mozzie now is not the time." He hisses, keeping an eye out for suspicious activity. "Neal's been drugging himself without realising it. We need to get to him. Tell me you have something."

_"Okay I have something."_

"Do you?"

_"No."_

"Mozzie!"

 _"I'm sorry suit! I've tried everywhere."_  Mozzie sighs down the line.  _"Wherever Neal went, it's nowhere_ WE _would go."_

"Meaning?" Peter snaps, because he is not in the mood for games.

_"Meaning despite what you think, people don't just vanish. Neal wouldn't just vanish. Suit you know what I mean."_

God help him, but Peter thinks he does and shockingly he thinks he actually agrees too. "I'm heading in to the office now. I have an idea, but it stays between us. Meet me at mine in thirty. It's time we looked where I know Caffrey might go."

Peter hangs up without waiting for a reply and quickens his pace to the elevators.

Stepping off on the 21st Floor, his hand reaches out to open the glass double doors when his phone chimes for a third time. "Mozzie I told you-"

_"Peter?"_

"Neal?" Peter stops dead in his tracks, staring into the busy office beyond, mind whirling.

_"I think… Am I in trouble?"_

Peter wants to say yes damn it! but doesn't want to scare him into severing the connection. Instead he forces calm into his tone.  _"Tell me where you are. I'll come get you."_

There's no answer forthcoming, just the quiet sound of hiccupping breaths drifting down the line. Giving up on waiting for an answer Peter unfreezes and barrels through the glass doors.

"Diana!" his shout gets the attention of all the agents working late on a Saturday to find this damn kid.

Jogging up the stairs and into the conference room, Peter turns his attention back to his cell.

He lowers his voice but leaves out none of his irritation. "Neal, tell me where you are right now or I swear I'll put you in jail myself!"

_"That's not a good idea Agent Burke."_

Peter's blood runs cold. There's no way it's who it sounds like. "Who's this?"

Diana and Jones arrive in the room, he holds a finger to his lips and holds out the handset, clicking on the speaker.

_"I think you know, Peter."_

"I know who you're pretending to be." He answers carefully, mouthing 'Kate' to his agents, "and I'll give it to you, good job. If I hadn't seen the plane blow up myself I might actually be fooled." He sees recognition dawning on his agents faces and nods. "Shame you're having to drug Neal into believing it."

The voice on the line turns hard, dismissive like it isn't worth the argument.  _"To get what you deserve be at Pier 16 in one hour."_

The line drops before Peter can open his mouth.

Even dead Peter still dislikes Kate.

Looking up at Jones he asks, "tell me you put a trace on that?"

"You think I started working here yesterday?" Jones shoots back with a grin, backing out of the room to check in with the tech team downstairs. "If Caffrey's in the area we'll get him."

Peter smiles back, gratified. "Good." He pauses, feeling distinctly uneasy still, like they're missing something.

"Boss, I take it that wasn't?" Diana meets his eyes.

"No." Peter dejectedly pockets his phone. "But she was sure as hell convincing." He has his curious face on.

"Convincing enough Neal will think it's her?"

Peter holds out his hand, requesting pause. "Kate's dead. Neal knows that. All the drugs in the world won't change that. What we need to be asking is what is so damn important about Caffrey that anyone would go to this kind of trouble to mess with him?"

"You mean us." Diana corrects. "Neal's part of White Collar, mess with one, you mess with all of us."

The sentiment was warming and gave Peter hope that all was not lost. "This really is personal, the attempted robbery and murder, all of it."

"Murder certainly got our attention." Diana agrees, "and what do you think she meant by 'what you deserve'?"

"No idea," Peter leans onto the table, staring, searching through all his brain cells to find some sort of connection between Neal, Kate and Carlton Hayes.

"Do you still think he's innocent in all of this?" Diana asks, like the mind reader she is.

"I do." Peter sighs, realising the only logical connection and not liking it one bit. "Maybe more innocent then we realised."

 


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've posted 2 chapters tonight, so make sure you've read 7 before reading this one :) thanks

 

"Diana, can you hear me?"

_"Loud and clear boss."_

"Keep eyes out for Rowland, we lay eyes on Neal we move in."

Walking across the dark and deserted Pier 16 gives Peter the creeps. The snow is falling heavily again, no ferries are on the water tonight. The van's parked nearby, affording views of the exit and entrance. The rest of the Harvard crew, along with SWAT are spread out around the general area. Rowland had made no demands about Peter coming alone, and so many things weren't right about this that he wasn't taking any chances. He wanted nothing more than to have the kid returned to him safe and sound, but he wasn't putting anyone else at risk.

"There's no one here." He reports into his radio.

 _"Got nothing here either,"_  Jones echoes from his position, voice travelling to all agents through ear wigs, "except frostbite."

Peter puts his gloved hands together and brings them to his face on instinct. "She'll show."

 _"Wait, you said Neal left without his coat_." Diana adds to the open chat from the warmth of the van, Peter confirms with a sound of agreement _. "How long do you think he'd last out in this?"_

"I don't want to think about it."

 _"Maybe she did."_  Her voice holds the hint of suggestion, with a heavy dose of dread.

"She didn't plan on meeting us. She wanted us to find his body." Peter breaks into a run, "Spread out, now! He could be anywhere, check the water."

Pretty sure they weren't dealing with a sniper situation the very real possibility sunk into Peter's tired and overstressed mind that it might be too late. He made it to the end of the pier, around the rear of the circle line hub, perfect place to leave a body under the cover of night. Breaking out onto the boards, ocean lapping at the sides, ice crystals already formed in the water.

The cell in his pocket starts ringing. Peter signals silence over the radio and clicks speaker phone "Neal?"

 _"Sort of."_  The voice purrs.  _"He's here."_

Peter scans the area but can't see anyone.

_"Tracing the call now boss, keep her talking."_

Peter internally thanks Diana, knowing she'd know what to do.

"I want to talk to him."

 _"He can't right now."_  Peter can hear the wind over the line _. "Have you worked it out yet?"_

"What?" Peter bites, "that you're Kate's half-sister?"

He feared from the long silence following that she'd dropped the call.

_"Wow, Neal was right, you are good."_

Closing his eyes in relief that he'd not screwed up, Peter easies his tone, trying to sound conversational and like he wants to have an open dialogue with this psychopath. "So, you and Neal have talked?"

 _"Yes, Agent Burke, we've talked."_  Her shrill, fake laugh grates on Peter's nerves.  _"Neal sure loves you. He kept insisting I let you help me."_

Peter spies Jones walking over to him. "I can you know," he says, resolutely not reading anything into her use of past tense in reference to Neal.

_"What, you ride up like prince charming, only instead of kissing me you throw me in jail?"_

"Look I don't know you, or what trouble you're in," Peter gathers strength, "but we can work something out, as long as Neal's not hurt, as long as we can bring you both in safely there's a deal to be made."

_"Ah, there's the clincher."_

Peter's grip on the cell phone tightens. "Kelly, where is Neal?"

 _"You can't see him already?"_  Rowland laughs.  _"Maybe you're not as good as Neal seems to think you are."_

The phone clicks and the connection terminates'. "DAMN IT!" Peter nearly throws his phone into the river.

"Nothing," Jones tells him face to face, confirming what Peter already feared. "We've canvased the area. No one is here."

"Well at least we haven't found a body." He tries to keep his hopes up.

 _"Peter!"_  Diana screams down his ear.  _"The bridge!"_

Peter instinctively looks up. His heart stops.

"Agent Burke!"

Ignoring the calls for him to stop Peter breaks out in a sprint off the pier and jumps the FDR barrier. Dodging the fast-moving traffic, he continues full pelt heading for the walkway that crosses the Brooklynn bridge.

Jones pursues Peter, breaking off at the road and jumping into the van to join Diana who's already at the wheel. He grabs the microphone which connects him to all the agents. "Agent Burke's heading for the Brooklyn bridge on foot, everyone back to your designated vehicle, we'll set up and maintain a perimeter."

"I've called NYPD to get assistance in closing the bridge," Diana tells him, adding with a look of regret - "The Marshals are already on route."

…

"Neal!" Peter's up on the bridge, he feels winded, it was less than half a mile from the pier, but the temperature is below freezing and the snow fall's picking up to blizzard worthy status. He's surprised he hasn't collapsed yet. "Neal, goddamn it, get down!"

Screaming isn't helping, but seeing Neal pacing a narrow lip on the wrong side of the safety barriers, once again a slip away from certain death, Peter's flashing back to two nights ago and instinct is taking over.

"Neal?" He skids to a halt a safe distance away, ensuring Neal is alone and nobody's set to jump out at them, give either of them a helpful push. "Neal, can you hear me? Answer me, Neal!"

Patrol cars arrive around him, the sirens off but flashing lights on. Neal doesn't react, keeps walking back and forth between bridge supports as if he's doing nothing more than taking a casual stroll.

"Agent Burke?"

Breathe Peter. In and out. "Yeah." His eventual reply is less than reassuring to the cop who's called his name, called it several times over he's sure.

"Agent, the US Marshals are on their way." The uniform moves to take his arm. "You should step back-"

Peter turns, sees the barriers already up, cars in place. Further down where the traffic's being stopped he can see the van.

"I'm staying," he shrugs out of his grip, not bothering to give the cop even a cursory glance.

His eyes are fixed on Neal. Giving him a once over, he can see he's dressed just the same as the last time he saw him. Suit a little stained around the cuffs, shoes looking like they've seen better days, not an outfit anyone in their right mind would wear in the middle of a snow storm, but then Caffrey has never been good at dressing appropriately for the weather. What catches Peter's eye with interest is the black bulk of plastic still sticking out the bottom of one pant leg. Light off.

"Boss what do you need?" Diana arrives, Jones at her side.

It's a loaded question, and one Peter just doesn't have an answer to right now.

…

Neal's walking the esplanade again. Again, the sun is warm on his face and the air is full of the smell of sea salt and the sweet scent of flowers in full bloom. The cotton pants and matching beige t-shirt he's wearing are lose and casual, not his usual fare. Looking down at the sand between his bare toes he finds himself questioning why he keeps coming here. In this space and time. He's visited this place every night for the past week, walked this path along the ocean and felt the warm breeze glide through his hair.

Looking around everything is sharp and bright, but lacking substance, colours like a Peter Max painting, almost cartoon. Peter said he looked like a cartoon once…

"Peter?" Neal spins, searching for him as if he's going to materialism out of nowhere.

"He's not here." A woman appears behind him. "He never was, Neal. It's just you and me."

"Kate?" Neal stumbles, knees almost giving out.

No not Kate, he decides when she nears, but someone who sounds very much like her…

He looks around again, questioning, fearful of what he doesn't know, just knowing- "this isn't right."

"You're not dead Neal," Not Kate laughs, "Not yet anyway. And not for lack of trying."

"Why am I here?"

"Have to ask yourself that I'm afraid." She turns to look out at the ocean. "Maybe it's the stunning view."

Neal follows her gaze, the dazzling sunshine spills across the water forcing him to squint, but looking past the glare, out in the centre is Rikers Island. Neal swallows, turns away, eyes back on the woman who's made it to his side without warning.

"I'll never go there." He forces past dry lips. "Peter won't-"

"Peter won't what?" She spits, tone suddenly nothing like Kate. "Peter isn't here, he doesn't care about you. Nobody cares about you anymore Neal, you're a murderer."

"I've never-"

"You've never killed anyone, is that what you're going to say?" Not Kate Laughs, "Oh, Neal. What about the pretty little gallery assistant? You remember her, don't you?"

Neal rears back. His mind drawn like a dog on a leash. He's on a roof top, it's night and there's no security. The building isn't very high compared to those around him, but there's a fire door to his left. It's open, he doesn't even have to break in. Slipping down the stairs his vision is like looking through the bottom of a glass, bulbous and misshapen with fuzzy edges. Time skips, the stairs turn into a corridor which turns into a large dark room. Flash light aimed low he sees he's surrounded by paintings, hundreds stacked wall to ceiling. These aren't displayed, they're stored. Nothing he recognises, not exactly. Styles yes, collections of the same artist. He's walking down another corridor, there's something he's looking for, but doesn't, can't remember…

A noise from behind has him freezing in place, Neal looks longingly back down the corridor before turning around to investigate. He enters a store room, or at least that's what it seems, he flicks on the light, needlessly searching in the dark is not his style. The alarm has been disabled and there aren't any windows – how he knows this Neal isn't sure, but he's certain now, he's not alone. Something hits the floor and goes rolling, a muttered damnit escapes someone's lips. Neal's backing out, into the main gallery. He turns and runs, his goal here forgotten. Normally he's cool, calm and collected on a heist. In his element. But right now, Neal can't remember how he got here, let alone why. He's nearing the exit when out of a side door a women steps in his way, she looks up, just as startled as him. He quickly scans his immediate area for alternatives, is about to dart left as she steps right – towards the fire alarm.

Next, it's like everything's gone into slow motion. The woman's hand is out-stretched, finger tips nudging the handle. Heat sears Neal's ear, singeing the light hairs tucked behind. A grunt escapes the woman, her hand drops and blouse explodes in blood. It's thick red and flowing freely, faster than a raging river. Neal spins around, reacting to the direction of the shot. Neal faces another, more familiar woman, finding the barrel of a gun pointed and smoking in his face.

Neal blinks, comes back to the warmth of the sun and relaxing rhythm of the waves. "I didn't shoot her."

"But if you hadn't been there, she would never have had to die." A smile curves her lips

"She didn't." Neal forces, his head is hurting, the pain building up quickly, becoming unbearable and unrelenting.

"She saw you Neal. You are the reason she's dead."

"No!"

"Yes!" She rips his hands from his ears. "Just like you are the reason Kate is dead."

"Kate," Neal almost chokes on her name, "died because Adler blew up the plane."

"A plane she wouldn't have been on if it wasn't for you," She says sweetly, but with an edge. "Don't you see, you should have just given her what he wanted Neal. She would have been happy, she would have been free!"

 _Free._  That word means so much. Something clicks in his mind. "I want to be free."

"And you can Neal. Just a couple of steps and you can be free."

…

"I want to be free." Neal opens his eyes, greets the dark and the cold, the wind and snow.

"No!" Peter leaps forward grabbing the railing, experiencing the utter reality of de-ja-vu. "Neal don't do it."

"Didn't. I didn't kill her. Peter, I didn't kill Kate."

_Yes, you did Neal._

"Neal, listen to me!"

Neal knuckles tired red eyes. "Why are you yelling at me Peter, you're always mad with me." He sniffs and looks down at the fast-flowing river he can barely see in the dark. "What makes you so mad with me all the time?"

"Oh, many things Neal, many things, but right now I just want you where I can keep an eye on you. Next to me," Neal looks over his shoulder and Peter holds out his hand. "Get down here now. That's an order."

_Jump Neal, it's what everyone wants._

Neal squeezes his eyes shut and covers his ears. "Shut up!" He screams. "Shut up both of you."

Peter looks around, there's no one there but them. "Neal it's just me, it's Peter."

"Burke." Marshal Marshall Dickerson approaches and immediately makes a liar out of him. "You've got to hand him over."

"Back off." Peter growls and flings out a hand, cutting him off from Neal.

"Agent I'm here to do a job." He steps closer, handcuffs out. "My orders are to take the prisoner to Rikers. He's going, whether you like it or not."

Peter looks to Diana and Jones, sensing trouble, and nods.

"Actually, while he's up there he's in acute distress." Diana gets in Dickerson's personal space.

"Yeah, and if he jumps you won't have a prisoner to take in." Jones closers in on his other side, going for detached nonchalance.

Peter uses the distraction to focus back on Neal, who Peter can see is watching them with interest.

"Neal?" Peter edges forward.

Neal nods, throwing a look downward, frowning in fear and confusion at the water. "I think I tried to call you."

"You did." Peter steps closer, pulls himself up to balance on the railings concrete support, bringing him eye level with Neal, "you did call me."

He watches Neal draw in a shuddering breath. "I don't, erm, I think my anklets not working." He lifts his pant leg to show the piece intact, but with no flashing light.

"We can fix that - if that's what you want." Peter adds hastily fearing he said the wrong thing when Neal rocks back on his heels.

Neal blinks, looking like it takes effort, and continues as if he didn't hear. "I feel really dizzy Peter. I mean, really."

"Really huh," Peter musters a laugh from somewhere, "so best you come onto this side with me, don't you think."

"Yeah, yeah I think that would be good."

He signs in relief. Neal offers his hand, which Peter grabs, ignoring how badly they're both shaking. The climb over the railings is more controlled than last time, arms secured around his waist Peter lifts Neal over with his full cooperation. A slight blush rises on the pale cheeks, possibly the only heat in his entire body by the feel. Settled on his feet on the other side Neal doesn't loosen his grip on Peter's jacket as they start walking towards the van and Peter doesn't make him.

"What's wrong?" He asks when Neal suddenly halts, forcing Peter to stop with him.

"You promise?"

"What Neal?"

"You promise not to send me there." Neal looks lazily in the distance. "You promise."

"I did promise." Peter reminds himself, realising what Neal is talking about. He looks nervously at Dickerson hovering next to Jones and Diana, waiting for them by the police barrier. They still had no evidence, nothing to help Neal stay out of Rikers. Nothing except his badge and his promise. "I'll protect you Neal, I swear I will do everything I can to keep you safe."

Neal nods and starts walking again.

"Burke."

"Back off Dickerson."

Peter tries to rush by him, but Marshal Dickerson predicts the move and steps directly in their path, blocking the way.

"Take him," Dickerson instructs his men.

"No," Peter launches forward, standing toe to toe with the man who is quickly overtaking Fowler on his enemies list. "He needs medical attention and this time I'm going to make sure he gets it."

Accusation lobbied and dropped at the US Marshal's feet, he sees no need to debate on the subject. Peter's normally warm brown eyes are dark pools of hatred for the so-called law professional stood before him. No one who thinks basic human rights are just for the law abiding should be allowed a badge. Snatching Neal's hand up in his own and tucking him in tight to his side, Peter pushes his way past Dickerson and his lackeys, pulling Neal towards the van. As hoped Diana follows, ensuring no one sneaks up behind them, Jones acting as a human barrier and stepping in Dickerson's way. Stopping the man from taking another step.

Once inside the van Peter sits Neal in the nearest chair, Diana shuts and locks the doors behind her.

"How he is?" She crouches down on their left, reaching out, taking Neal's pulse.

Peter's bent at the knee, holding one finger in front of Neal's face, trying to get him to follow it back and forth without success. "High as a kite."

"We taking him to the ER?"

Peter stares long and hard, lips pressed into a tight thin line. "We can't," he takes a deep breath and stands, pacing the small space. "We go to any hospital Dickerson will know and be there within minutes."

Diana pivots, keeping one hand on Caffrey to secure her balance and tracks his agitated movements. "Christie's on days this week, she could make a house call."

"I can't ask you to do that." Peter stops and turns, hands to hips in his familiar thinking pose.

"You're not." Diana snaps. "She can check him over and get the blood work we need to confirm he's been drugged again. Boss, Rowland managed to compromise the hospital last time, who's to say she won't try again? Plus, the Marshals aren't going to wait around for tests results."

Jones jumps into the driver seat. "We've got about a minute before the wolves are at the gate, where we heading?"

Smiling at the commitment of his team, Peter nods at Diana to make the call. "We don't want to look like we're trying to hide him, so my house. Hopefully, with some outside help, that'll be the last place our friend Dickerson will think to look."

…

"Just a few more steps." Peter encourages, walking Neal inside via the back door.

There were no unmarked suspicious cars parked outside, not the Marshals way, but they still weren't taking any chances. Jones had dropped them a block away and driven off, planning on leading Dickerson on a bit of a chase by using the van to pursue a lead at the first ER Neal was taken to.

"I think I can make it." Neal's words are more confident than his body as he stumbles his way towards the sofa.

"Christie's on her way." Diana pockets her cell and follows them into the living room.

"Good," Peter drops onto the cushion next to Neal and runs his hand through the snow sprinkled hair, trying to bring it back into some kind of style and failing miserably. "When's the last time you had a haircut?" He smiles, trying to relieve the tension of the room.

Neal doesn't respond, not to the smile, Peter's ministrations or his words. Simply stares dead ahead, eyes open but mind clearly far, far away.

"We should take his clothes into evidence," Diana thinks out loud. "Whoever took him-"

"There might be DNA." Peter nods and indicates for her to take his place on the sofa, apparently Neal was having a hard time staying up right. Each time he shifted Neal went with him, and he doesn't fancy adding a tumble down the stairs to Neal's already long list of injures and symptoms. "I'll go grab his things from upstairs. You got any evidence bags?"

"Never leave home without them," she holds up the satchel she'd walked in with and takes a seat next to Caffrey, opposite side to where Peter had vacated.

"Peter?" Neal calls out weakly, his gaze tracking his handlers run upstairs.

"He'll be back in a minute." Diana takes Neal's jittery hands in hers. Feeling how cold he is she starts to rub some warmth into them. "You doing okay Caffrey?"

"Yeah," Neal answers immediately, though she's sure it's an instinctual response to the question and not really an answer. Time passes in silence until Neal breaks it again with the one word she'd heard repeated again and again on the journey over. "Peter?"

"He's upstairs, be back in a minute."

Neal nods, accepting her answer yet again. It's so creepy, his mild-mannered compliance. Not the Caffrey she's accustomed to teasing and threatening with bodily harm. The hands aren't the only part of him cold and shaking. Taking a leap, copying the actions of her boss, she reaches around the shaking body and pulls him to her, letting Neal rest his head on her shoulder and close his eyes. They don't speak. Just sit. And that's how Peter finds them minutes later when he reappears at the bottom of the stairs with a change of clothes and blanket in his arms.

…

Peter pulls Neal's room apart for the second time that day, looking for anything suitable to change him into and confirms what he's always suspected. Neal Caffrey did not do casual.

Grabbing a few things from his own draws in desperation and running back down stairs he catches sight of Diana going the extra mile as always.

"Comfy?" He smiles, taking the last few steps at a calmer pace.

"He's freezing." She shoots back, a gleam in her eye that dares him to make anything of it.

"Admit it." Peter grins. "He makes it hard not to like him."

"Feel sorry for you mean, I'm not heartless."

"I - can hear- you know." Neal manages to say in between breathless gasps.

Peter immediately grabs his forearms, forcing him to sit up straight. "You struggling to breathe?"

"Chest - a little tight," he wheezes, eyes opening with the movement, lids falling back automatically, not unlike one of El's mother's creepy porcelain dolls she always has on display.

Peter looks to Diana, but she shrugs back at him. He checks his watch. Christie shouldn't be long he consoles himself, they just need to hold out, keep Neal calm. It's probably anxiety anyway. He takes a deep breath.

"Stand up, you need to take your clothes off." Peter orders like it's no big deal, focusing on what he can do, not what he can't.

Neal looks between the two of them, mind clearly taking longer to process than usual. "No."

"What do you mean no?" He snaps.

"I mean - no. I may be completely off my face - but I know I'm not getting naked - in front of the two - of you." Neal gives them both a scowl, despite the effort to complete the sentence.

Diana laughs and Peter huffs.

"Neal, we need your clothes for evidence, the woman who you were with all afternoon, she may have left evidence on you."

"How about I step out and give you two a minute." Diana quickly excuses herself, heading for the backdoor.

Peter scowls at her back. Neal just keeps scowling in general. Though he seems to be breathing easier now it's just the two of them.

"We're not doing this again." Neal looks up at him, it's the most lucid he's been and Peter launches on it.

"What happen today Neal?"

He opens his mouth but pauses before making what Peter knows is going to be a glib response. "I think, I remember… Kate?"

Peter lets out a heavy sigh, drops to sit on the coffee table in front of him.

"It wasn't. It couldn't have been. Right?"

"Right." Peter takes the opportunity offered. While Neal's placid and focused on his thoughts he sets about undoing the buttons of his shirt. "Tell me what happened from the beginning, why'd you leave your apartment?"

Listening to Neal try and piece together what he remembers Peter continues undressing him, slipping him out of his shirt, kid moving as willing as a rag doll in his hands. Shirt removed, bagged and tagged, he makes an executive decision and quickly pushes one of his own large, old college hoodies over his head.

"Know where you first met her?"

Neal absently shakes his head, eyes still glazed over. "I can't remember ever seeing her before." He slips his arms into the hoodie himself, pulling the cuffs down to cover his hands. "I think I'd remember if a saw someone who looked like Kate."

Peter doesn't bother mentioning that they had both seen her, just yesterday in fact. "I'm not sure she does all that much. I think she used the drugs to make you think she does. She's put on a good show, but it's not her Neal."

"I know." He nods, looking at Peter with complete trust.

"Pants." Peter says, staring back.

"What?"

"Take your pants off."

"Peter, first you sleep with me, now you want my pants." Neal's words dissolve into light giggles. "Do I need to call Elizabeth?"

"Come on," Peter smiles and grabs his wrists, "up."

Neal is obedient for a change and with a huff of indignation makes slow work of his pants, dropping them to his ankles, kicking his feet out. "Off." He announces, as if it's a major accomplishment.

"Cute." Peter returns the Cheshire cat grin and bends down to liberate the pants from his living room floor.

Now the proud owner of a pair of muddied and damp devour pants Peter quickly drops them into the evidence bag Diana provided and zips it up.

"I hope you've got something to replace them with?" Neal asks, self-consciously tugging down on the hoodie, which luckily for him hangs way passed his butt.

"You can leave them off for me."

Both men turn around, Neal looking worried, Peter smirking when he sees Christie.

"I've brought her up to speed." Diana informs them, following behind.

Peter smiles, pinches Neal's blushing unmarked cheek and pushes him to sit back down on the sofa, moving out the way to stand beside Diana.

"He's a bit more with it than he was thirty minutes ago." Peter offers.

"And a bit more naked." Neal grumbles.

"Okay, Neal." Christie pulls over dinning chair and sits facing him, "I'm just going to check the basics then we'll draw some blood, ok?"

She turns to the two agents. "Do you want to give us a minute?"

Peter isn't keen on leaving, which must be obvious since Neal looks over and gives him a soft shy smile. "I'll be okay Peter, promise."

The difference between now and the bridge is heartening. Confident in his words Peter follows Diana out into the garden.

"Why the hell are we out here?" He asks the second she pulls the door to, stopping the cold air from entering the warm house.

"To give Neal privacy." Diana eyes him. "There may be somethings Neal doesn't want us to hear right now."

"I'm his handler and medical proxy. He's a ward of the state, he doesn't get to keep secrets from me."

Diana gives him a pitying look. He knows that look, has been on the receiving end of it from El more than once. "Christie knows what she's doing, give yourself a break and let someone else worry about Caffrey for a while."

Before Peter can comment a rustling in the bushes draws both agent's attention. On high alert, they pull their guns, clicking safety's off.

"FBI!"

"Hey." Two plump white hands immediately go up in surrender. "Suits, I come in peace."

"Mozzie!" Diana is first to lower her weapon.

"Why are you creeping around my garden?" Peter asks through gritted teeth, not needing anything more to have a heart attack over today.

"I come bearing news. Word is the marshals are scouring hospitals over in White Plains." He grins manically.

"Oh really," Peter smiles. "And why would that be?"

"An anonymous tip."

"That should keep them off our tail for a while."

Mozzie stretches to stand on his tiptoes, trying to see through the windows, "how is he?"

"Well," Peter debates on how much to share, but is going to presume Mozzie might well have found out most already. "He's been drugged out of his mind again. There a doctor we trust with him now."

"You can come back in." Christie calls out over fifteen minutes later to the group freezing to death on the patio.

Peter's first through the door, finding Neal still sitting upright on the sofa, but now wearing Peter's jogging bottoms. Neal's own clean clothes still folded on the dining table where he left them.

"How is he?"

Christie looks to Neal who nods consent. "He's doing okay, slightly elevated heart rate and high blood pressure, but if he's got the concoction you warned me about running through him, then that's not surprising." She indicates the agents to join her, turning Neal to face the back of the sofa she points at a red patch of skin on his neck. "See, here?"

Peter and Diana both lean in, but it's Diana who sees the collection of small holes first. "What are we looking at?"

"Best guess, injection site."

"Injection of what?"

"Could be anything. The holes are small, meaning a narrow gage needle, but if he was already experiencing dissociative symptoms it's likely he wouldn't even feel it go in."

Blue eyes in a pale face raise to meet his, looking apologetic of all things.

"He going to be okay?" Peter instinctually reaches out, resting his palm in Neal's hair.

"Lucidity will come and go. Certainly, some confusion, but that should pass with time. I've taken blood samples, we'll know better what we're dealing with once I've run them." Christie pauses. "Are you sure you don't want to bring him in for monitoring?"

"I want to, trust me." Peter tells her, settling himself next to Neal on the couch, instinctively wrapping his arm around the pliant body when he leans in.

"Okay, I'll head out." Christie nods and packs up her bags, securing the twin vials of blood. "Call as soon as I have anything." She offers them a smile and heads for the door.

"I'll walk you to your car." Diana follows her out.

Peter watches them go, waits for the door to close before turning back to Neal. "You still with me?" his head has slipped to rest against Peter's chest, eyes closed, his whole body boneless. Only the thankfully steady movement of his chest indicating life. Peter sits back with an audible sigh, collapsing into the cushions, taking Neal with him. "Obviously not."

 


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For some reason this story isn't registering when I update it. I've only just noticed and will try and fix it :) Please check you're read all chapters - 6, 7, 8 and 9 have all been added this year. Thanks!  
> Oh and while i'm here thanks to all the kind comments and kudos! They mean a lot :-)

_Shut up, shut up, SHUT UP!_

With both hands covering his ears it takes Neal a second or two to realise the voices had  _shut up_. Opening one eye cautiously he surveys the immediate area. Several things stick out for him, but the biggest red flag is the sliver of concrete keeping him from plunging into the East River.

Determined to remain calm, Neal opens that draw in his mind where he keeps all the bad shit in his life, throws this moment in whole and slams it shut again. Imprinting a big 'to be dealt with later' sign all over it.

"Burke."

Neal instinctually flinches. He knows that growl. That growl means deep, deep shit. He's about to reopen that draw, squeeze in an extra load, when another voice soothes the anxiety before it reaches the level of unmanageable.

"Back off." Peter's growl is surprisingly comforting - when it's not aimed at him.

An argument ensues, Neal watches with disinterest. He feels… numb. On the outside at least. Inside his mind is spinning, words, sounds and colours all moving at the speed of light, blending together. He knows if he tries to speak his mouth just isn't going to keep up.

"Agent I'm here to do a job." Marshal Marshall steps closer, handcuffs out. "My orders are to take the prisoner to Rikers. He's going, whether you like it or not."

Neal hears Rikers and is assaulted with a memory. Not a clear one, sort of hazy. There's water there too, but it's warm, unlike now, and there's a woman, a familiar one. With brunette hair and bright blues eyes.

"Neal?" Peter edges toward him.

Neal blinks, shakes off the feeling of detachment and slowly nods to indicate he's heard. "I think I tried to call you."

"You did." Peter steps closer, "you did call me."

 _'I did'_. The speed race inside his head has slowed to a crawl. Something weird is happening to him. Something… not right. "I don't, erm, I think my anklets not working."

He doesn't know how he knows that but feels it's important to tell Peter all the same. Talking of Peter, he's closer, but blurry now, the white of his skin contrasting with the darkness of his clothes, stretching into thin tight lines and snapping back into clarity before breaking down again.

"…and I feel really dizzy Peter." He swallows, tries to focus on a point in the distance over Peter's shoulder, seeing if that helps. It's doesn't. "I mean, really."

Peter laughs. Neal doesn't think it's funny. Wants to tell him so, but Peter's mouth is moving and there's no sound. A hand is reaching out, turns solid long enough to grab hold. Neal doesn't know what is said, by him or Peter, but he latches on and lets Peter bundle him over the cold railing. He doesn't even care when Peter's hand brushes against his butt before wrapping intimately tight around his waist. Despite the haziness Neal hasn't forgotten he's one ill-timed slip away from certain death. Peter can grab him wherever he likes so long as he doesn't let him fall.

Safely on the right side of the barrier Neal walks with Peter towards what he thinks is the van. Always the damn van. He hates the van. He hates prison more of course so the van he'll have to live with. A flash of a memory again, back to that warm, calm place right at the very edge of his mind.

Neal digs his heels into the steadily thickening snow beneath their feet. "You promise?" He looks Peter in the eye. "You promise not to send me there." Neal looks lazily in the distance. "You promise."

Before he's worked out what's happening Peter's shouting again, holding his hand and pulling him along like a wayward child.

_'Peter?'_

"Neal?"

_I'm taking him in._

"Neal!"

"The Marshals?" Neal gasps, eyes flying open.

"Hey, steady."

Neal blinks up at a beige ceiling, sight adjusting to the low lighting. The noise of the highway, of the wind whooshing past his ears is gone. Peter's face swims above him, concerned brown eyes looking down into his bright blues ones.

"Don't let them take me." He begs and he hates himself for it but he can't go back, he's only just got out.

"No one's taking you anywhere I promise." Peter smooths back the hair from his forehead.

Neal swallows, the urge to be sick overcoming him. He sits up slowly with Peter's help, feels tears prick his eyes and resolutely tries to hold them back.

"Don't worry mon frère, I've ensured they'll be busy for the night."

"Moz?" He squints, trying to make sense of the figure sitting off to the side in the shadows.

Turning his head Neal takes in the familiar yellow walls, feels the warmth of the home he knows so well and listens to the sound of the TV on low. Righting his sight, he launches himself up off the sofa. Pushing supporting hands aside Neal makes a beeline for the back door. Out in the cold he drops to his knees in the snow and throws up everything he's not eaten in the last 48 hours.

Peter doesn't speak, just steady's him. Holding his trembling body as he continues to retch, bringing up only bile

"It was a stupid nightmare." Neal sniffs once he's done, pulling away to sit on his butt and swiping a hand over his face. "I'll be fine."

"I know you will." Peter tells him, handing over a water bottle which appears out of nowhere.

Neal snorts, sips and spits. He needs to get his shit together. He can't go on like this.

"But we need to talk and I need your head clear."

Neal looks up slyly from Peter to Mozzie, who has snuck up behind them. Oddly enough seeming to align himself with Peter.

"Alright." He slips out of Peter's hold and dragging himself up, slinks off back inside. Showing no care or awareness that's he's soaking wet yet again Neal keeps sliding his feet until he bumps the edge of the sofa, folds at the knees and falls face first onto the cushions. "Go for it. I'm sure I'm full of answers."

It would probably carry more weight if he wasn't lying on his stomach, face pressed into one of Elizabeth's throw pillows.

"Neal, this is serious."

"Oh," Neal shifts so his voice isn't muffled, "really?" Glaring up at his keeper and consummate rescuer. "I hadn't noticed, thanks Peter."

Peter pursues his lips into a tight line, a clear sign he's holding back. "Neal-"

"No!" Neal shouts, pushes up on the couch so he's sitting on his knees. "I get it, I do, but the fact remains I don't remember anything and quite frankly I don't think I want to. Why don't you just back off and leave me alone!"

"Well sure, I'll just call the marshals, shall I? You'll certainly be on your own then."

"Do it!" Neal glowers, not backing down.

Peter turns his back with a sigh and tags Mozzie in, walking off into the kitchen. Neal watches him go, angry glare following his every step. Inside it's a different story. Watching Peter go his heart is breaking, loss and hurt and other feelings so profound Neal doesn't like to think about rising from the belly up, closing his throat and causing his sore eyes to water.

"Hey,"

Breathing heavy and laboured, Neal flinches at the softness of Moz's voice breaking through his inner thoughts. Yelling Neal thinks he can cope with right now. Anger gives him a focus, something to channel all his energy into so he doesn't break down sobbing, unable to stop.

"Please don't be nice to me right now, Moz." Neal breaths in through his nose and out again in a steadily faux-controlled blow. "I really can't handle it."

"Well maybe you can handle this." Mozzie sits in the chair opposite, near enough to reach out if needed. But not in his personal space like Peter would have done. "We know the identity of your kidnapper."

"Oh," Neal shifts, the dampness of his clothes starting to register and tries to sound interested, resolutely not taking his focus off the closed kitchen door.

"Did you know Kate had a sister?"

"Half-sister." He answers lazily, without really thinking about the implications of what Moz was saying. "Kate was raised by her Dad."

No matter how far you go, where you travel, people are intrinsically drawn to others like them. Lost souls, abandoned children, they find each other somehow and that shared experience becomes a foundation for relationships.

"Well, guess who your kidnapper is?"

Neal turns, showing his surprise and not caring who sees. "How is - that, - what… why?" He's struggling to breathe again, words getting stuck in his throat as his lungs fight for air.

"That's what I'd like to know." Peter returns, walking towards them with a steaming mug in hand and taking his customary seat next to Neal on the sofa.

The anxiety reduces the second the gap at his side is filled. Something loosens in his chest and continues to unravel when Peter hands the mug over and the aroma of hot chocolate hits his nostrils. Offering a soft smile is as much of an apology as Neal can muster right now, but Peter seems to get it because one large, warm hand squeezes his shoulder.

"We've got a lot to tell you."

…

Peter takes a couple minutes to himself to get his shit together. Resets his mind by making hot chocolate, following El's instructions to the letter. He's operating on fumes right now, none of this is the norm for them. Neal is vulnerable and can be scared sometimes, but always in a way that has engendered a sense of responsibility in Peter to keep him safe. This pissy, annoying, bratty behaviour is something else, and yes Peter knows it's the drugs, but knowing the cause doesn't help him deal with the reality any better.

Hovering by the door he listens to Mozzie and then Neal's reply. Kid sounds like he's about to bawl and damn if that doesn't douse the flames considerably. Sucking it up, whether Neal can handle nice or not Peter certainly isn't going to give him the fight he wants just so he can avoid dealing with his feelings.

Walking back in, armed only with a mug and a smile Peter's prepared for anything. El's voice in his head is giving him the strength he needs not fuck up. He sits down at Neal's side, and gets his reward straight away. Neal takes the peace offering and instantly leans into him. That simple reaction telling him all he needs to know.

"We've got a lot to tell you."

And tell they do. Between him and Mozzie, everything they've dug up on Rowland, her connection to Terrell, to Kate and surprisingly to Vincent Adler.

"This is a joke, right?" Neal looks at them when they're done, throwing Kelly's picture face down on Peter's coffee table. "A bad dream?"

"Afraid not mon frère." Mozzie sighs. "Though if I had known the future back then I might have chosen a different focus, if you know what I mean." He touches his nose and winks.

"Peter knows all about Adler Moz." Neal sighs, he hadn't gotten around to warning him about the night of immunity they'd shared, which seemed like an age ago now.

"I know all about your long con on Adler." Peter clarifies when Mozzie looks set to argue.

"Neal?" the edge of panic in Mozzies voice causes, of all things, a ripple of laughter to course through Neal.

It was so heartening. The distress was clearly worth it. Peter's sure from Mozzie's expression he's also willing to concede.

"It's okay Moz." Neal plays with his empty, chocolate stained mug. "So Terrel and Rowland worked for Hayes. Hayes and Adler knew each other, Rowland introduced Kate to Adler and…"

"-She ended up working for him, as did you." Peter points out, eyebrow raised in enquiry.

"You inferring me and Kate were Adler's Terrel and Rowland?"

They stare at each other; the issue of Kate had not so much resolved as laid dormant. When she died Peter didn't get to be there in the initial aftermath to help him grieve. And when he was there months had passed, Neal had moved on, or at least put out the impression of moving on. Peter was happy as long as Neal was coping. He really didn't want to talk about Kate because he still felt very strongly that she had been stringing Neal along this entire time. Now it seems his theory could be proven right, and he's going to take no joy in it.

"So," Peter tries to diffuse any remaining tension. "Now we know how the players are connected-"

"We need to work out what they want." Mozzie finishes Peter's sentence. Something that freaks him out by the look on his face.

"We already know what they want." Neal sighs, standing and removing himself from his safe haven under Peter's arm. He needs space, to think, to remember. While Peter has him cocooned in safety he's hiding and that's not going to get them anywhere. "This is about the music box. It has to be."

"You mean the fractal." Mozzie intersects. "I'm still working on it."

"What if it's not?" Peter puts it out there, tone like he already has the right answer. "What if this is about Kate?"

"She would have been free." Neal whispers.

"What?"

Neal stops pacing, "I think she said that to me."

"Kate?"

"No," Neal swallows, "Kelly. She blames me for Kate's death." Neal says like it's a certainty.

"She does." Peter doesn't bother sugar coating it, he agrees. "But I think she probably blames you more for losing her big pay day."

Frowning Neal faces Peter, feeling completely exposed standing in the middle of Peter's living room, wearing Peter's clothes, feeling like he might break down and cry any minute, but he doesn't miss that slip. "What aren't you telling me?"

Mozzie offers to start them off. "There's financial evidence to suggest Rowland and Kate were working together,"

"With Adler." Peter adds, not wanting to drag this out.

"No," Neal storms off, putting at much space as possible between them. "No Peter, I'm not, I can't – do this again." Neal glares at him, wanting to shout, to keep telling them they're wrong, but is once again rendered mute by the tightness in his chest.

"Jones traced matching bank accounts to both Rowland and Kate. There were steady payments being made right up until the plane exploded. Now given Adler doesn't have the music box I'd summarise that Rowland exhausted her usefulness when Kate died and was forced to go looking for another opportunity."

"No, no, no, no. It's got to be more, there's more to it than that." Neal faces them both, Peter still sitting where he left him, Mozzie, the stress having gotten to him was helping himself to El's wine cabinet.

"Neal," Mozzie interjects, "you need to consider the possibility."

"It wasn't part of the plan," Neal speaks up, having moved to the very back of the house, staring out at the snow falling once again, a new fluffy layer settling over the ice already present, covering the indent he'd made. As if erasing his very presence from the world. "Something went wrong."

"You remember something." Peter joins him.

Neal parts his lips and Peter waits eagerly for the answer.

"The murder." His breathing picks up yet again, short sharp breaths getting shorter and faster with each inhale.

Starting to recognise the signs of an impending panic attack well, Peter acts immediately.

Taking a firm hold, he guides the pliant body to face his. Moving one hand to grip the base of his neck, Peter strokes his thumb over Neal's cheek. "Tell me what you remember."

"Peter I can't," Neal's voice breaks as he tries to pull away.

Peter's grip tightens, forcing him to remain in place. "Yes, you can, just breathe."

He moves his own body closer, face mere inches from Neal. To anyone who happened upon them it would look like Peter had Neal pinned against the wall.

"I don't want to!" Neal frees one arm and tries to push away, but Peter's prepared and counters efficiently.

Finding himself with both of Neal's wrists secured in a one-handed grip he feels he has no recourse but to follow through with what he's started. At least Mozzie's staying silent, but whether it's through agreement, understanding or shock he doesn't know.

"It's okay, Neal, Neal listen to me." Peter soothes. "Think about the night you went to the gallery. What happened Neal?"

Neal closes his eyes and his breathing slows, chest still heaving but no longer frenzied. It takes mere seconds but they drag like hours, then, eyes suddenly wide and worried, the next three words out of his mouth drop like a stone in Peter's stomach.

"I killed her."


	10. Chapter 10

 

Chest heaving, breathing quick and heavy, there's a rushing sound filling his ears. Peter's hands are on his arms' then his neck, he concentrates on the soft caress over his cheek and tries hard to relax.

"Tell me what you remember."

Peter tells him to remember, but he can't, he – he won't! Neal doesn't want to remember that night.  _That's_ the point. Motivation to run clear Neal fights his way free. Only this time his method lacks his usual suave sophistication and finesse. Peter catches him easily – and with force. The very act of being restrained – by  _Peter –_ it  _hurts_.

"…Neal, Neal listen to me."

How can he be so calm,  _how_? Neal struggles and pulls but that only seems to make Peter's grip tighten, the pressure around his wrists increase, his skin feels hot and raw.

A whimper is all that breaks free in the end.

His humiliation reaching its peak, head bowed, slumping back against the wall, Neal closes his eyes and forces his breathing into a slow, even rhythm. He braces himself, because despite wanting nothing more than to run, run far away, he knows he isn't going anywhere without giving Peter a reason to let him go. And he was most certainly going to let him go after this.

Neal opens his eyes, showing all his fear and anguish, because he needs Peter to know this isn't a con, isn't something he planned. He needs him to understand how sorry he is, before he voices the words he knows are going to end it all.

"I killed her."

…

_'I killed her…'_

It's the middle of the night when Neal wakes up, a gasp leaving his lips. Looking around while his eyes adjust to the darkness he quickly discovers Peter asleep next to him, one arm draped over his chest effectively pinning Neal to the couch. Clearly not at all troubled by the cramped conditions, Peter's need to be close could be seen as caring, or it could simply be because his anklet isn't working. They haven't got him a new one from the marshals for obvious reasons, so maybe Peter's desire to suffocate him is just running prevention, who's to say? Either way Neal manages to extract himself from his handle's hold without waking him, which means as a human failsafe he sucks at it. Although complete exhaustion is probably a mitigating factor.

After his confession - after he talked both friends off the ledge - Peter had given him a hug and insisted they all get some sleep. Neal wasn't interested in sleep, very much wanted not to sleep. Sleep was the gateway to all things terrifying right now, where Neal too often found himself in strange places at strange times and at the mercy of whatever foe decided to invade his thoughts. But even after he explained his very sound reasoning, Peter still refused to entertain the idea of him staying awake all night. He couldn't make him sleep and Neal had told him so, arms folded across his chest determined to make his stand. Peter had stared at him, was silent for a seemingly unending amount of time, then just as his resolve was breaking laughed in his face. Actual full on hysterics and everything. He called him adorable, then left to fetch blankets. Neal was left unimpressed to say the least.

Okay, so technically he didn't kill the gallery assistant,  _technically_  he was a witness. Peter insisted on the distinction when Neal filled them in on what he recalled about the break-in, the one he remembers committing – he thinks – but still doesn't know why, or what he took. But he still couldn't let go of the idea if he hadn't been robbing the place then she wouldn't have been collateral damage. That night he'd gone to sleep in his apartment and woken up bruised, battered and freezing to death on the Brooklyn Bridge. Knowing that could happen again he asked both his friends how they could even suggest sleep being good for him at this point.

Mozzie accepted his theory, while at the same time calling him highly martyred and proceeded to pass out, short legs dangling over the arm of the chair, empty wine bottle at his side. Peter nodded like he understood, but then pushed him towards the sofa. Neal put up a cursory protest for forms sake by dragging his feet, making Peter work for his compliance. Despite the completely surreal situation it was comforting to know somethings didn't change. So, fully expecting to be dumped on the cushions and left alone, it took all his energy to keep the surprise off his face when Peter collapsed down next to him, pulling him sideways over his lap and tugging a blanket up to cover them both. He didn't know what to say, but he was grinning and that must have given him away, because before he could utter one sarcastic word Peter gruffly told him to shut up. The arms wrapped around him tightened, ensuring very little wiggle room. He expected to feel claustrophobic, but surprisingly the warmth of the body beneath him, the steady rise and fall of Peter's chest lulled him into closing his eyes. He felt himself drift and eventually decided what the hell, he couldn't stay awake indefinitely, and if any crazy person wanted to try and take him from Agent Peter Burke, well he'd pay to see that fight. Peter was oddly possessive with the people in his life.

Now, wide awake and making his way out the dark, yet cosy living room Neal tip toes past Mozzie who is still where they'd left him and it occurs to him that a weird unbalance is happening. One that if left unaddressed too long could become the norm, and by god wasn't a terrible thought? One that makes him even more determined to fix this. They need to go back to their old roles, to how things used to be. A world where Mozzie came and went and never stayed, and where Peter could give him a clap on the shoulder or hug without Neal bursting into tears.

Creeping upstairs, he decides the best place to start with the fixing is Peter's Caffrey box. There's probably parts of his life in that box that even he doesn't know about. It reminds Neal of the shoe box his mother used to keep in a chest in the attic when they were living in St Louis. He'd gone snooping one day after school. His mom was working late and he'd gotten bored. A locked chest was hardly a challenge for him even then, but when he opened it and found the photos – ones of himself, his Mom, some of a man Neal presumed to be his Dad – it was the first time Neal learned to clean up after himself, understanding the importance of leaving no trace. He's still not sure even now who the man in the photos with his Mom was, because he never worked up the nerve to ask her. She was too fragile on her bad days, and good days were so infrequent nothing mattered more than trying to preserve every second. The faces from those photos have faded from his memories over the years, a blur conceals any recognisable features, much like when he thinks back on his life as Danny Brookes.

Neal shakes, un-gelled fringe flying left to right, throwing off any hint of Danny, Danny's Mom or photos of a life long forgotten. Mind back on Peter's version of that box and what it symbolises - a comparison to his mother something he doesn't have the mind space for right now. One complexity at a time – Neal enters Peter and Elizabeth's bedroom, easily finds what he's looking for and begins his search for answers.

…

"Wha'cha doing?"

"Jesus," Neal grabs his chest, "Peter you scared me."

He's sat in the middle of Peter's bedroom floor, leaning against the bed. The Caffrey box spread out around him, mixed with it his prison files that had been carelessly left out. The sun hasn't yet risen, although there is a hint of light on the horizon, filtering in through the windows behind him. Neal hadn't noticed the time passing or heard Peter walk in and had jumped out of his skin when the deep voice disturbed his concentration.

"Good to know I haven't lost my touch." Peter bends down and fusses with his hair, feeling his forehead and noting the intense heat Neal knows he's radiating.

He sits through Peter's ministrations without complaint, resigned to being cast in the submissive role for the foreseeable future. He lets Peter push back his fringe, rest his palm against his forehead, even poke his healing cheek.

"You done?" Neal blinks up at him.

"I'm done," Peter nods, unrepentant and sits down beside him, "for now." He snatches the paper clipping out of Neal's hands. "What's holding your attention so badly?"

Neal doesn't resist, let's the old and worn newspaper cut out glide through his fingers. Peter's quiet as he reads and Neal's happy to sit still and wait. He keeps his gaze forward, listening to the sounds of the city coming to life outside, creating a soft base that lulls him into passivity, a sense of calmness infiltrating his inner being and making everything feel like it might be okay.

"You know when I think about your trial now…"

Neal rolls his head against the side of the mattress, stares up at Peter and waits for him to continue.

"Do you hate me?"

It's a strange question, one Neal wonders about himself from time to time. "I wanted to," his says thoughtfully. "Really, I wanted to despise you. You used Kate to get to me. Used her to take four years of my life." He pauses, takes a shuddering breath. "But I knew, you know? I knew I'd be arrested, I was just glad you let me speak to her first. If you'd have taken me going in…"

"I could have," Peter answers like he's not thought of it that way before, "Probably should have now I think about it."

"That would have been cruel." Neal tells him. "I mean you can be really mean sometimes, but using her as bate and then not even… No, you wouldn't do that. I knew you were a good guy."

"If I hadn't been such a good guy we may not be here now. You'd have served your time and be a free man."

Peter poses something he's not thought about. Had he not seen Kate that day it's unlikely she'd ever have come to see him in prison. No visits meant no in for Alder, meant Kate would be alive, he'd be free and Peter wouldn't be babysitting an ex-con who's turned his life upside down for the last twelve months.

"No, you're right. You should have."

Neal speaks with such passivity Peter has to look at him to make sure it really is Neal he's sitting next to. Then something clicks in Peter's mind.

"Did you have any other visitors in prison?"

"Why?"

"The other night, you slept walked your way into my bedroom. Went through my Caffrey box."

"Yeah you said Terrell wrote to me."

"What if it wasn't just Terrell?"

"You think they both did? Why?"

Peter doesn't answer, "she used a pseudonym. Maybe Rowland did too," he leans forward and pulls the prison box closer. "What was the date on the Terrell letter?"

They find the letter believed to be from Terrel and a bunch of others which hadn't been opened. It didn't seem to be much, but Neal recognised the code used in them straight away. They were just like Kate's.

"I never saw these." His disappointment is obvious.

"They were posted after your escape. You were on lock down. No contact with the outside world." Peter sighs, suddenly wishing he'd never asked for the damn box to be brought to his house.

"My own escape attempt screwed me." The desolation that maybe everything could have been different if he hadn't reacted impulsively hits home hard.

"Neal what does it say?" Peter prompts when Neal silently reads one of the letters for too long.

"It's a location. A time." Neal hands the letter over to Peter, who takes it with a healthy amount of scepticism.

"What am I looking at?"

"Third word on the third line from the top, every third line and word after that." Neal tells him tiredly.

"Not very sophisticated for you," Peter says as he checks. "I'd have thought they'd want to challenge you, after all…" His voice fades as he reads. "Oh Neal-"

"They planned this from the beginning." Neal stands and leaves the bedroom, running.

Pounding down the stairs, Neal uses the noise to drown out the repeated calls of his name. Reaching the bottom step, he pushes his feet into his shoes and grabs a coat, it's not his, he didn't have one that he remembers, but doesn't care, he needs to leave and he needs to leave now.

"Neal, god damnit, STOP!"

"I didn't do it!" Mozzie shouts in response, startled awake by the sudden commotion.

"Neal!" Peter grabs him, tries to pull him back.

"Let me go," Neal pulls out of Peter's grip easily and fly's out the newly opened door.

…

_"My own escape attempt screwed me."_

Peter heard the desolation in his tone and in that moment should have realised things were about to go south and fast.

Kate's loss has been his gain, and by the sounds of things, she and her sister massively under estimated Neal's childishness. They likely assumed prison would have forced Neal to grow up, him breaking out with only four months left on his sentence certainly couldn't have been part of the master plan. If he reads all the letters he'll probably discover the rest of a wannabe sublime plot designed to twist the heart of a young man, whose worst mistake seems to be falling for a girl with a low moral code. Neal's moral code is shaky, but as Peter has discovered over the years, he honestly never means to hurt innocent people. It isn't right by any means, but to Peter it shows he isn't a bad person at heart, just misguided. And misguided is something Peter could work with - hence the deal. Chances are good that had Neal not proposed the deal in the first place, or better yet – escaped, he would have seen the letters eventually, met up with Kate when he got out and either have ended up collateral damage for Adler or returned to his old ways and the chase would have begun again, right where they left off.

Having lost him once already Peter isn't giving up easily. As secretly arranged Jones was parked across the street, he apprehends Neal on the sidewalk with little effort, lightly restraining him as he marches him back inside the house.

"Thanks Jones," Peter nods, waiting calmly on the top step.

Jones hands Neal over, not releasing the grip on his wrists, pulled tight behind his back until Peter's standing between him and the door. They exchange a brief word, an update on the marshals before Jones returns to his car and Peter steps back inside, closing the door.

"You sit at the table until you calm down." Peter points to the dinning chair on the end, the one facing the rear wall.

"You putting me in time out?" Neal snaps back, stomping his way over obligingly anyway.

"Call it what you like," his voice raises in volume, "but before you plan your next escape you may want to rethink your outfit." Peter rakes him up and down.

He watches comprehension dawn. Neal's face is flush, hair all over the place wearing his dress shoes, Peter's FBI windbreaker and a water stained pair of sweat pants. Stained because after his trip out into the yard to throw up last night he'd refused to change and simply let them dry.

"It wouldn't take long for you to find me I guess." Neal offers a begrudging half smile.

Despite knowing a smile is Neal's first line of defence, Peter's heartened to see some of the old Caffrey still in there somewhere. "Or the marshals." He adds, remaining firm in his words. "Neal, I know this is hard and I can't imagine what you're feeling at the moment but you're going through withdrawal. You've got to trust me right now."

"I hate to keep agreeing with the suit," Mozzie interrupts, who until now had been hanging back, watching the action play out, "but I agree with the suit."

He aligns himself next to Peter, both of them looming over Neal who has decided to slump childishly in the dinning chair the wrong way around, legs spread either side, chin resting on the raised back glaring in the living room.

"I can't believe Kate was using me." Neal murmurs. "I just… can't." He starts to fidget, a look in his eyes telling Peter he's not done running yet.

"You see this is why it's best not to form attachments. No connections, no issues." Mozzie lectures while Peter, one hand on his shoulder, physically tries to keep Neal seated.

"Mozzie, you are not helping." Peter holds up his palm, indicating for him to shut up.

"She wouldn't do this Peter, she wouldn't. They were controlling her, they- she-"

"Was lying to you!" Peter shouts, breaking away, hands running through his hair stopping just short of tearing it out. "Kate lied to you Neal. I don't doubt she loved you once. But the girl who left you in prison that day was not the Kate you fell for." He lowers his voice, attempts to step closer. "Neal she was working with Alder, with Rowland - she was using you."

Neal denies him eye contact, but even if he had it him to don his confidence man façade, Peter sure those normally intelligent bright blue eyes would be clouded in denial. "They could have threatened her, made her think she had no choice."

"It's possible. In the beginning." Peter concedes. "But what about after? When she had every opportunity to hand herself in and tell you the truth."

"She was worried they'd hurt me."

"She knew damn well that wouldn't happen while I was around! She wanted what Adler was offering. Only he didn't pay up, did he? He killed her and he would have killed you too if you'd gotten on that plane and you know it." Peter turns stiffly, stuffing hands in his pockets to stop him strangling sense into Neal. "I told you that day at Avery's," he starts again, softly this time, keeping his back to him. "You're conning yourself if you think anything she did was because she cared about you."

"Er, suit,"

"Not now Mozzie." Peter cuts him off.

"Suit you best get over here!"

Peter glances briefly over his shoulder at Neal, sees he's staring sorrowfully at the floor and joins Mozzie who's looking out the living room window. "Crap."

"What?" Neal doesn't miss a beat.

"The marshal's." He sighs.

"Peter?"

He turns, sees the fear on Neal's face. "It's okay. I won't let them take you to Rikers. I promised you, didn't I?"

Mozzie looks between the two who are staring at each other in despair. "We need a plan."

Peter walks over to the table and hands Neal the clothes of his own he'd brought down for him yesterday. Pulling him out of his seat he drags Neal to the back door.

"Go, I'll cover."

Neal's confusion turns into abject horror. "No," eyes watering he nearly doesn't find his words. "What about you?"

"I'll let them search the house, you've been staying here, having your stuff around won't be a surprise." Peter sighs, separating from Neal is the last thing he wants, especially after what's just happened, but it's the only way to protect him. Protect them both. "I'll meet you at Columbus in one hour, if we're going to solve this we need to walk the scene together, jog more of your memories, okay?"

Neal shakes his head, all bravado suddenly absent. "No-"

"Mozzie will look after you." Peter glares at the little guy.

"Of course." Mozzie moves out into the yard, arm held out to grab the kid if necessary. "Come on, before the Pigs are at the gate."

"Peter," Neal implores once more.

"It's okay," he takes Neal quickly into his arms, squeezing tight and releasing him just as fast. "Now go."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all comments and kudos they mean a lot :)


	11. Chapter 11

"Where is he?" Marshal Dickerson pushes past Peter the second he opens the door.

"No, please, come in." He deadpans, slamming the door, denying entrance to lackey's number one and two standing in his porch.

Dickerson shows no interest in the welfare of his colleagues and storms the home, checking the kitchen first, then the basement before heading upstairs. He goes so far as to raid the bedroom closet.

"You're wasting your time," Peter leans against the door of the guest bedroom, smirking at Dickerson's pissed off glare. "Neal's never been in the closet."

"What do you think you're playing at Burke?" The towering marshal squares off to him. "Neal Caffrey's suspected of murder, and you hide him instead of handing him in?"

"I think the key word there is suspected." Peter steps forward, voluntarily closing the gap. "Neal was being drugged against his will, manipulated-"

"Sounds to me like prison will be safest place for him if that's the case." Dickerson scoffs, exiting back into the hallway, nudging Peter's shoulder with his own as he passes. "Best hope while you're covering for him he doesn't make his way to another bridge."

Arms rigid by his side, Peter clenches and unclenches his fists, recapping to himself what happened the last time he hit a fellow law enforcement officer in the face. "That was the drugs." He manages through gritted teeth.

"Or the guilt." Dickenson's smug grin is the last straw.

Suddenly only able to remember how much he enjoyed socking Fowler, Peter chases Dickerson out, trapping him in the corner where Neal's bedroom joins with his own. Arm already raised he's ready and willing to get this sorry hulk of a man out of his house, but Jones' unexpected appearance on his stairs ruins the moment.

"Agent Burke!"

Breaking away first Peter looks over at Jones who nods silently back at Peter. Dickenson clocks the exchange and suspecting, as Peter assumes he's meant to, that they have a lead on Neal, slips around both men, heading for the door.

"I'm going to be on your tail Burke." He yells his parting words before disappearing back out the way he came.

"Wouldn't have it any other way." Peter yells back, smiling broadly, tone friendly but without the customary warmth. Jogging down the stairs he quickly slams and locks the door behind him. "Okay," he turns back to Jones, fake smile instantly falling from his face "what's really going on?"

"Diana got a lead on our missing nurse." Jones moves towards the dining room, pulling out his cell phone and placing it open on the table. "You got me and Peter"

"Kelly Rowland left us a very nice paper trail," Diana's voice travels through the speaker. "We got everything from the phone she used to contact you, to the apartment she's been renting just three blocks from Neal's place."

"That was easy."  _Too easy_  Peter thinks worryingly.

"Like she's put the information out there for us to find." Jones agrees.

"She's showing off." Peter thinks out loud, a sudden and unwelcome thought hitting him.

"What?" Jones can see the look and knows it isn't good.

"It was part of her plan…" He starts backing away towards the stairs.

"Yeah clearly but-"

"No, taking Neal and letting him go again." Peter dashes up, disappearing to his bedroom. "She let him go so he'd follow through with the plan!"

"What plan?" Jones shouts up to him.

Peter arrives back down stairs within seconds, Neal's prison letters in hand... "Kate's plan." He hands over the letters, "Rowland's finishing what Adler started. She's going to kill Neal."

…

"Neal, this is not a good idea." Mozzie whispers tersely, back to the locked bathroom door.

Neal pokes his head over the stall, pulling on his own pants and t-shirt. "I need to end this Moz."

"Well then let's do it the smart way." He turns, pleading with the graffiti covered plywood separating him from his best friend. "The suit can help."

"This isn't Peter's fight." Neal says solemnly, reappearing dressed in his own attire, looking more like himself than he has in days.

"But if he wants to help…"

"No Moz." Neal's firm, staring into the soap and water streaked bathroom mirror at his tired eyes and hollow cheeks. "I need to do this for myself."

The truth is Neal needs to do this to prove he can still take care of himself. If anything, the last few days have taught him he's become  _too_ reliant on Peter.

Dependency is not an attractive trait, his whole life he's strived for independence, from his earliest memories Neal's known how to take care of himself, but since putting on the anklet all that has changed. It's been nearly a year - almost to the day - since, with the frill of his escape fading fast and the reality Kate was gone settling in, the thought of stepping out into the world without a plan or a safety net had terrified him. Mozzie was in the wind and Kate could have been anywhere. Despite having no significant contact for nearly four years, Peter Burke was still the only consistently dependable person Neal had in the whole wide world, and from the moment the agent walked into that empty apartment, alone and unarmed, a little of the knot twisting Neal's stomach loosened at the sight of that familiar suit.

"I need Peter to know he doesn't have to rescue me all the time." Neal forces out through an unsteady voice.

"But he is good at it." Mozzie reasons, counting off the 'times' on his fingers, "the time you stole the Hastenburg, when Fowler framed you for stealing the pink diamond, after getting drugged in the Howser clinic… All the times you've been kidnapped. The -"

"Moz!"

"All I'm saying is the suit wants to protect you." Mozzie joins Neal at his side, pleading with his reflection.

"I told you, I don't need protecting." Neal offers sullenly, gaze falling away to stare at the grime covered tiles beneath his feet.

Mozzie huffs, then sighs deeply. "Sometimes that isn't such bad thing."

The tone was soft, words gentle, yet it's like he's taken a knife to the chest. "What happened to trust no one?"

"Oh, I still stand by that." Mozzie insists bouncily, "for me. For someone like you? I think you should make a couple of exceptions."

"Someone like me?"

Mozzie rolls his eyes. "Neal, come on, don't make me say. Just-"

"No Moz."

"The suit-"

"I said no," Neal shouts, eyes hard he glares to make his point before heading for the door. "I'm doing this alone."

"Alone?" Mozzie freaks and follows, "Neal-"

But he's not quick enough, by the time Mozzie exits the seedy public bathroom and reaches the sidewalk Neal has already done what he does best. He's run.

…

Peter pulls up with a screech of brakes. Jumping out, not even bothering to shut his car door, he approaches Mozzie hovering on the corner of Columbus just as they'd arranged.

"I told you to look after him!"

"Easier said than done suit," Mozzie turns to him, looking more relieved than anything. "You know what he's like once he's got an idea in his head."

"Yeah," Peter plants both hands on his hips and looks to the floor, taking a couple of deep, even breaths, "yeah, I do."

"And despite my usual abhorrence for your kind," Mozzie waits for Peter to look him in the eye, "I'm glad you're here."

"That's great." Peter takes another deep breath, gets his head back in the game. "What's going on?"

After Mozzie had lost Neal it hadn't taken long to find him again, or his trail at least. Peter Burke maybe the expert but Mozzie had his ways too, a Neal in his right mind would have known that and realised the futility of his actions.

"I'm not completely sold on the idea." Mozzie squints, lips pulling tight. "But based on our last conversation and a few less than reliable sources, it seems he's looking for Kelly Rowland."

"By himself." Peter fumes.

"By himself." Mozzie confirms, the feeling of despair mutual.

"You think she's controlling him, that she got to him somehow like before?"

"Drugged him?" Mozzie muses it over, but being the bright guy he is, isn't easily swayed away from the most logical course Neal oh so helpfully laid out for him before his departure. "No, I think Neal's actually feeling something along the lines of … dependency. And it's freaking him out."

Peter sighs long and hard. "Yeah, that'll be about right."

"So, what do we do?" Mozzie doesn't miss the look of surprise on the suits face at being asked, the feeling's mutual, but he's smart enough to keep his expression blank.

"We're here." Peter looks down the street to the gallery entrance. "Might as well see if the NYPD missed anything."

They enter through the basement, the building not having reopened since the murder. Peter decides since the door is open, it's fair game. How the door came be open, well that's a question that doesn't need to be asked. Neal isn't the only charmer in their partnership, he's sure he can talk them out of any NYPD shaped misunderstandings should they arise. No sooner does the door swing shut behind them, Mozzie launches off the bottom step and is heading towards the secure door labelled no access. Peter reacts seconds before Mozzie does, pre-empting his moves as well as he would Neal's. The very idea he knows the little guy that well creates a panic in Peter's mind – clearly they're spending way too much time together.

"This is not a shopping trip."

Mozzie turns to him affronted, but for once doesn't argue. "Fine." He throws him one last dirty look, "so where do you want to start?"

Peter thinks, looking around the dusty storage rooms leading off the corridor. "Neal told us he entered via the roof."

Mozzie looks around, eye catching on a door to their left. "Down here."

Peter follows him, entering a stairwell and moving up a level. They exit into what at first appears to be a storage room, but is in actual fact, part of the main gallery.

"I don't get modern art." Peter deadpans, clearly in despair at the junk, and its accompanying price tag.

Mozzie pulls a similarly disgruntled face. "It does lack in erudition."

"Too messy for you?"

"I'm not a neat freak!" Mozzie defends.

"I wouldn't dare suggest." Peter's smug, liking the familiarity of their bickering, it meant the world was still spinning the right way. "How about we focus?" Peter stares at Mozzie, Mozzie stares back blankly. "The roof?"

"Oh right." Mozzie jumps and speeds off. "This way."

By the time they reach the exit to the roof Peter's pretty sure Mozzie has already cased the gallery and knows all its weaker points, as well as what to take that'll go unnoticed the longest. That should concern him, would concern him on any other day, but today all his worry is consumed by thoughts of Neal. The kid being out there all alone, likely not in his right mind and looking for a murderer. God where did he start? The words Mozzie used spring to mind. Dependency. He knows Neal, knows he struggles to let anyone see the real him, the vulnerable boy underneath all that conman armour. Peter wonders if he's let too much of his own worry show these last couple of days. It was hard being the bad guy all the time, but firm boundaries were what kept Neal in line. He often maintained a stern exterior even when he felt anything but, all because he knew that's what Neal needed. He left the coddling to Elizabeth because she wielded the power that came from it so well. She could be nice without being a pushover. Just sometimes though, Peter really wanted to be the one Neal sought comfort from, to be the good guy for a change without losing the authority needed to keep the kid in line.

"This is where it happened." Mozzie's voice breaks through his thoughts, drawing his focus back to the here and now.

"The crime scene tape and chalk outline pretty much give it away." Peter covers for his absentness with sarcasm. "She must have surprised them." He walks the scene, copying the steps he presumes the assistant had taken – before she became the  _dead_ assistant.

"Them?"

Peter looks up, "well we know Neal didn't shoot her."

"Right."

Mozzie shifts, tipping his head back and staring down at Peter through his lenses. "He wasn't exactly clear on who did though."

Peter once again lapses into a distressed silence.

"Look, suit-"

"What's going on down here?"

Mozzie set out to run, but Peter holds up his arm, and then his badge. "FBI."

The middle-aged woman in a high waisted slip dress and high heels at least twice the size of her feet clips her way across the hard-tiled floor towards them. "Who let you in?"

"We were reviewing the crime scene," Peter announces calmly, acting as if they had every right to be there. "Were you here when it happened?"

The woman looks thrown, as Peter intended. "I was at home. I already told the police everything."

"I know, sorry. We were just looking for other leads."

"Other leads?" The woman huffs, voice uneven. "What other leads? I thought they knew who did it? Why is the FBI involved?"

Peter narrows his eyes at the woman, observing the way her hand flutters nervously over her face, the tremors she can't stop… "Miss?"

"Jill." She answers readily, clearly not as savvy and confident as her outfit was meant to suggest. Just like someone else he knows.

"Jill," Peter uses his own version of the Caffrey smile. The one his wife calls 'calming'. "Is there something you'd like to tell me?"

"No."

"Jill, I should warn you lying to a federal agent is a crime."

Jill, face heated, backs up a few steps looking between him and Mozzie in a panic.

"Goddamn-it." She breaks. "I knew it, I knew I should've…" falling silent, as if just realising she'd been talking allowed Jill takes a few seconds to reset her features and like magic she is the picture of cool calm collectedness once again. "What assurances do I have if I hand the tape over?"

"Tape?" Mozzie blurts.

Peter silences Mozzie with a look. "You have it?"

Jill rears back. Making it clear she's not saying another word until she gets what she wants. Peter too remains silent and they remain trapped in that game for nearly a full minute. "Look, if the owner finds out about this I'm fired and no one in the art world will come near me. I'll be ruined!"

Peter holds up his hand, "okay." He appeases. "Tell you what, you give me the tape and I'll keep your name out of it. I'll say I got it anonymously."

"Fine." She grinds her teeth as if she doesn't believe a word, but knows she has no way out. "Follow me." Jill walks off, heels clicking down the corridor, expecting them to follow. "Look, I had no idea what that stupid girl was doing. I fully intended to hand it in."

Jill goes on about her reasons for delaying informing the NYPD of the tape, filling them in on the how and where she came into possession of it. He wants to strangle her for withholding evidence. The only reason he doesn't arrest her just for that is because Neal has to be his priority and focus right now. Jill's a getting a lucky break.

"Where now?" Mozzie asks the second they make it outside, free and clear out of the gallery.

"Now," Peter holds the memory stick up in one hand. "We find Neal."

….

"And she just gave you the tape?" Jones follows Peter into the conference room.

"Neal isn't the only charmer around here…"

"But he is the only painter." Diana indicates the screen.

"I can do a good stick drawing." Peter shares a grin with Jones and as one they turn to see what she's watching.

"I'll be damned," Jones mutters. "Is that?"

"A Rembrandt." Diana agrees. "Even in his sleep he's talented."

"He's not asleep." Peter looks closer at the grainy image of Neal making quick broad strokes across the canvas, recreating what is undoubtedly 'The Storm of Galilee'.

"Boss, I'm sorry." Diana sighs, breaking the silence.

Peter turns to her in confusion. "The original went missing in 1990. Neal's talented, but I'm pretty sure a nine-year-old did not mastermind a $500 million-dollar art heist."

"If one could I'd put 20 bucks on it being Caffrey." Jones jokes.

Diana gives him a 'be serious' look. "Boss, you know what I mean. Neal's obviously involved."

Peter picks up the remote and fast forwards through the footage, pausing it when a woman comes into view.

"That's the murder victim." Diana's turn to frown.

"Yes, it is." Peter grins with excitement.

"How did we get this again?"

"Jill the gallery curator said she received it anonymously through mail, no note. She doesn't recognise the room, but she did recognise these painting storage crates in the background as belonging to her gallery." Peter points them out. "Was very concerned about being implicated in selling forgeries."

"Let me guess, Kelly Rowland sent it to her?"

Peter nods. "The forensic guys have the envelope but I'm betting it comes back clean."

Jones quickly moves to the far side of the room, grabbing the laptop and opening the map of Caffrey's radius. "While you were babysitting Neal, I reviewed Caffrey's movement's the nights he went walkabouts." He spins the screen to show Peter. "See this?"

"What am I looking at?"

"Does it look like a spiral to you?"

"Each night's map makes a similar pattern." Peter eyes him, nonplussed. "We know that."

"It's called toilet bowling. When a magnet interferes with a compass signal."

"Magnet?" Diana bustles in-between the men to get a look.

"Look I'm not a magnet expert, but I've talked to a couple… and they agree." Jones straightens, "Neal's anklet's been tampered with."

"Impossible." Peter shakes his head, gaze fixed on the screen until he catches Jones' sideways look. "Okay nothing's impossible where Neal's concerned." He sighs. "Do these experts have any clue as to how we work out where Neal did spend his time?"

"Actually, they do. I won't bore you with the maths-"

"Because you don't know the math" Diana interrupts, grinning.

Jones returns with a grin of his own, taking the jibe with practised ease. "Bottom line, to create this effect the signal couldn't have been moving – it was stationary, and they think it must have been broadcasting from this area each time." Jones zooms in on the map and circles it.

"What's there?"

"It's an abandoned development." Diana leans over, indicating the black space near the little stationary dot. "Right on the water, near pier 16."

"Our suspects favourite place. A quiet, unoccupied neighbourhood, perfect place to do a little pre-dawn forging." Jones sums up. "Want us to go take a look?"

Peter opens his mouth, but his cell rings before he can put to words what his mind is thinking.

"Okay." Peter says one word to his caller and hangs up.

Diana and Jones look at him expectantly.

"The Marshal's know Neal's missing."

"How?"

"Seems they received an anonymous tip."

The three agents share a look, but Diana's the one to put it into words. "Then we best find him before they do."


	12. Chapter 12

"You sure about this?"

Peter walks slightly ahead; the sun is going down, the late evening light fading and the chill increasing.

"No." He answers the little guys question. "But it's where she's leading us."

"Isn't it dangerous to go to the place the crazy woman tells you?"

"Probably." Peter looks around, feeling the cold even with gloves due to the icy winds blowing off the East River. "You got a better idea?"

Mozzie shrugs and they drop into silence as they search the area next to the water. They're back on Pier 16, in the fading daylight, a light snow falling, covering the layer of ice already on the ground. Prior to this week Peter had no feelings about Pier 16, he sometimes passed it on his way to work, quite liked looking at the old sail boats, but now?  _Now_ he gets a shiver up his spine at the mention of Pier 16. Being on the pier now all he can think about is the moment he looked up to see Neal standing on the wrong side off a bridge for a second time… and that's what's so strange, because in his logical mind it should be the bridge which gives him anxiety, filling him with dread and despair. Exactly how he's feeling right now in fact.

"Suit!" Mozzie calls. "Over here!"

The little guy disappears from view. Peter jogs to reduce the gap, sure as he is that Mozzie is already steps ahead of him.

Arriving at the spot he was last seen Peter's faced with a small descending stairs case behind one of the old tickets stalls built into the pier. He takes the stairs carefully and is greeted by a rusty red mental door. It's been left ajar, revealing nothing but darkness behind its squeaky hinge.

"Mozzie?" he whispers into the dimness. Torn between alerting someone to his presence and finding the object of his search. "Mozzie answer me damnit!"

"Here."

Peter falls back, surprised not only by the sudden appearance of Mozzie behind him but the flashlight thrust up in his face, bouncing off the little guys glasses, giving him an evil look.

"Gees Mozzie, what the hell, and where did you get that?" He points at the flashlight, pushing it downward so it's not blinding him.

"I found something." Mozzie just grins and turns, running off down a long corridor.

They must be under the pier Peter realises as Mozzie continues talking. A strange thought occurs that such a structure could exist, but then New York has plenty of secrets it's yet to share. A city with a complex history and innate fight for survival in any circumstance - of course Mozzie would be the one to find a secret tunnel under an oft-frequented tourist attraction.

"Actually, this tunnel is heading inland. More than likely it was a sewer tunnel at some point given its trajectory. Disused now obviously."

"Is that what that smell is." Peter says absently. "What the hell are we doing down here?" Peter catches him up, "aside from having a history lesson."

"Look," Mozzie opens a door built into one side, arm out as if welcoming Peter to his own home.

Knowing Mozzie, it wouldn't surprise him either. What did surprise him, what takes his breath away in fact, is the sheer quantity of art stacked around what amounted to a small studio.

"Suit, do you recognise it?" Mozzie grins like he's uncovered a secret treasure trove of jewels. "It's the room on our tape!"

"There must be a least fifty paintings in here." Peter walks through, taking in the numerous pieces, but his gaze is drawn to the unfinished portrait still on an easel.

"Fifty-seven to be exact."

"Ah-huh," Peter doesn't question his assertion, "they all Neal's?"

"Hard to say."

"Mozzie,"

"Suit really, I don't know." Mozzie actually makes eye contact. "Neal is good. Really good. There's experts out there who can't tell his work from the real deal."

"Neal is the real deal," Peter says, instinctively and without realising the impact of his statement at all.

Mozzie clocks it, but hides his surprise well enough.

Peter chooses to search the room. "What about the originals?"

"If they've been fenced I'd know about it, trust me long lost pieces do not just go quietly into the black-market night." Mozzie grins manically until he remembers whom he's talking to. "What I mean to say is-"

"I knew what you meant," Peter cuts him off in a grumble. "Hey, look at this," He holds up a syringe, picking it up from a tray stacked with vials, "what's the betting this is what Neal's been injected with?"

"She just left it out? Lying around?" Mozzie frowns, takes a closer look. "There's a print on it."

Peter's contemplative. "Yeah, how very convenient."

"Why do I think that's a bad thing?"

"Either Kelly Rowland is an incompetent criminal who's just been lucky so far…" He scans the room again, taking in the array of evidence before him, "or she's planned every move to the last detail."

"You did say she wanted us to be here."

"Which means she wanted us to find this, all of it." Peter waves his arm, encompassing all the art, the drugs, all of it.

"But why?" Mozzie asks, then his voice rising in panic, "you think she already has  _Neal_?"

"I think there's no way she doesn't. And Neal may not even realise it."

…

Neal braces himself against the wind breezing through the crossbars of the Brooklynn bridge. He's watching the sun slowly descend over the horizon, calling an end to yet another day where his future remains uncertain. The short winter days can seem claustrophobic to some, but not him. He loves the winter. Something about the crispness in the air. The fall heralds the end of summer, but winter, it entices a sense of wonder. Plus, even a New York street can look desolate in winter, when the snow is thigh high and for most the idea of digging a way out of your warm home seems insane. Before prison Neal used to spend hours on this very bridge. It afforded the best views and reminded him why it was good to just be alive, to be free. The bridge is where he'd come just for the sake of it, when his continuing freedom wasn't even in question. It reminded him a little of St Louis, of a life he had loved and eventually learned to thrive in, in his own special way. But like all good things in life, it came to an end. Much like his time spent on this bridge, when running became his main pre-occupation and he couldn't afford casual strolls in heavily surveilled areas.

Looking out at the setting sun now, at the tide turning in and the sound of the last ferry making port, he wonders, was the allure of this bridge more than just the view? Did he get a sense of something much more important to come or is it a coincidence that several years later he's making regular crossings just to see a friend? A friend who means so much more to him than he ever could have thought possible.

"You look like a man doing some heavy contemplating."

Neal winces at the voice, but keeps his back to her until he can force his face into a neutral expression. "Hello Kelly," he eventually turns with a wide, confident grin. "I don't believe we've been properly introduced." Plastic smile fixed yet brittle at the edges, Neal offers Kelly Rowland his hand.

"Kate kept me a dark little secret." She smiles softly, placing her palm in his and shaking gently. "I think she thought I'd try and steal you away from her."

"You do that with all her other boyfriends?" Neal quips, thinking back on the man Kate was going to move to Chicago with.

"Just the ones she didn't trust." Kelly makes the jab sound teasing, but it hits its target. As he's sure she meant it to.

Neal loved Kate, but trust was something he very rarely gave – to anyone. When it came to trusting people, he learnt the importance of cautiousness from Ellen and the need for scepticism from his mother. Growing up he disguised his fear of the unknown with breezy confidence, found safety by making everyone his friend, but protected himself by never being theirs. Dread was a feeling he lived with daily once he ran away from home, so Neal did everything he could to keep it at bay. Then Peter Burke entered his life and threw his whole 'no one's nice unless they want something' philosophy right out the window. Despite the origins of their relationship with each other, he's never felt the need to test Peter's trustworthiness. When it came to embarking on their deal, Neal already knew, already trusted the man so implicitly, calling his motives into question so late in the game would have tipped his world upside with no hoping of righting it again. He did however test both Kate and Mozzie. Kate was the one who kicked over his stone, Kate was the one who set him on Alex's trail to find the music box - before he even realised there was a greater treasure to be found, let alone Alex's connection to it. Kate was the one…. who planned to blow up the plane.

"She was never going to cut you in you know." Kelly grins, having watched him connect the dots.

Neal realises now why he'd had such an adverse reaction to her at the clinic. He remembers her, remembers her like a persistent itch in his mind. One that won't stop yet refuses to be found. A feeling just out of reach, leaving nothing in its wake bar frustration and confusion.

"It's over you know, Peter's going to find me and arrest you."

Kelly laughs. "You really believe that, don't you?"

Hands, big and strong grab him from behind, covering his mouth and restraining his arms. He fights, a well-aimed elbow here, a kick there, but in the end his air supply has been cut off and the struggling is only making him weaker. In the seconds between the needle plunging into neck and its contents being dispersed into his blood stream, Neal can't help but think he really should have seen this coming.

…

"Neal kept going to the bridge." Peter paces the small room, careful not to disturb the scene.

"She kept pushing Neal to the bridge." Mozzie corrects.

"But she wants Neal dead, she doesn't want us to save him."

"She wants you to watch though."

Peter pauses, faces Mozzie. "Why?" He queries, needing to hear out loud the reasoning before giving over completely to the theory.

Mozzie scoffs like he's a complete moron for asking. "The games, the phone calls, err hello, the  _drugs_?" He drawls out with a wide eyed,  _are you really that stupid?_  glare. "If she just needed Neal's art skills she'd have used him up and disposed of him the second she was done with him. There's no reason to keep him around unless…"

"She wants to hurt him – and me." He sighs, remembering his first instinct upon hearing of the connection between Terrell and Hayes.

Mozzie gives him a smug grin. Peter's sure if there was a wine bottle nearby right now the little guy would be reaching for it in triumph.

"I was at the hanger when Kate died. I stopped Neal getting on board. She wants me to pay for ruining their first plan." He stares directly at Mozzie. "That's what this game's been about." Peter drops the syringe he was still holding and runs.

"You think he's on the bridge?" Mozzie calls after him.

Half way back down the corridor he shouts back, "I think he's somewhere she wouldn't think I'd be able to save him!"

Peter exits the tunnel and resurfaces on the pier. The sun had set, the night-time temperature dropping well below freezing. Looking up to the bridge he can see the lights, the traffic. Neal isn't up there. That's where she wants  _him_  to be, wandering the bridge, looking for Neal so he can see…  _what?_

Peter thinks back to the other two occasions he's been up there. He remembers the feel of the snow under his shoes, the biting cold of the wind. Neal standing on the ledge, the crossbars iced over and perfect for slipping. He looks down, he sees the flow of the river and…

Peter snaps his eyes open, looks from the bridge down to the groynes littering the shore line up to the pier. Wasn't the tide further out when they were up here earlier?

"Mozzie when is high tide?" He shouts.

"What?" Mozzie appears back out of the tunnel just in time to catch his name but little else.

"Tides Mozzie!" Peter demands running off the pier and expecting him to follow.

"Er, medium?"

"Mozzie!"

The little guy rolls his eyes and follows. "I don't have encyclopaedic knowledge about everything suit! I'd need to look it up!"

Peter gives up. "Come on," making it to the shoreline, cold be damned he removes his jacket and lifting his gun heads straight for the water. Visibility is practically nil. Everywhere is black, only the light mist and sprinkling of snow showering down on them differentiating the murky water from the murky night. "Can you see him?"

"Do you have any idea what kind of diseases are in sand alone?" Mozzie grouses, skirting the edges of the tide, getting his toes damp and backing up with each wave.

Peter ignores him, scanning the dark water. "NEAL!"

A buoy sounding in the night is his only response. Then he's running again, only this time into the river, leaving mozzie jittering on the shoreline. Legs pumping through the sludge he doesn't think about his suit or the diseases or anything. Knee deep in freezing water he reaches the first timber barrier mid-way and scales the wall.

"NEAL!"

"SUIT!" Mozzie calls his attention, pointing manically to the next row along.

Peter scans the water again, starting to lose feeling in his toes up. "I can't see him!"

Mozzie continues with his frantic hand movements, only just visible this far out what with the building fog. Peter briefly wonders if he's lost his mind. A water search is a complicated process, requires strict protocol and equipment. Numb toes are going to be the least of his worries if he doesn't get out of the freezing water soon.

Preparing to traverse his way back onto shore and call for back-up he takes barely a step when a glint of mental hovering way above the water catches his eye. And with that sign all thoughts of protocol and potential loss of extremities to frostbite are forgotten. He holsters his gun and launches himself to the next row of timbre groynes along.

"Neal!"

"Hey Peter." Neal smiles tiredly up at him, waving a pair of open hand cuffs in one bleeding hand, water above waist height and waves lapping at his chin, as if their meeting like this is an everyday occurrence.

"Oh god, Neal," Peter looks him over for significant injury and finds none. His arms are still secured above his head to the groyne by thick damp ropes however. "Hold still, I'll cut you down." Peter takes the cuffs carefully, Neal starts a distressed protest until he pulls a knife from his pocket and cuts through the ties.

"I knew … find me P'tr."

Neal hiccups his way through his statement and continues to ramble on about people and places Peter has no knowledge of, or if he's honest, interest in right now.

"Neal," Peter leans further into his personal space, being careful not to submerge himself more than he has to. "Neal!" A slap to the cheek does it, Neal's eyes focus on him. Peter keeps his hand on his chin to ensure they stay that way. "We need to get out of the water, can you stand?"

Neal looks set to put his hands under the water to push himself up but Peter catches him, snagging both sleeves and wrapping them around his neck.

"I'll lift you, okay, on three…" Peter counts up and as promised hauls Neal bodily to him, standing himself up straight in the process. "Get your legs under you, come on, Neal? Neal!"

But Neal is a dead weight in his arms. Peter has no idea if he's even still conscious since his head is lying lax over one shoulder. The arms maintain a good hold around his neck, so feels the odds are as good as they're going to get and drags him back to shore.

Dumping him at Mozzie's feet, the little guys frozen in place, opening and closing his mouth, no noise coming out.

"He's not lucid, she must have given him something." Peter grouses, working at removing Neal's soaking clothes. A task made difficult since he can barely feel his own fingers.

"I'm fine." Neal bats his hands away, but makes no attempt to sit up.

"Oh really?" Peter stops his fumbling attempt to get at his shirt buttons, "follow my finger." Neal narrows his eyes, looks one way then the other on what appears to be a whim, failing the test miserably. "See?"

"Well you never said which one." He whines, flinging out both arms in what looks like an attempt to cross them over his chest in a sulk.

Peter looks heavenward, biting his tongue. "Somethings not right, here." He sighs, unconsciously running his hand through Neal's damp hair while staring out into to the dense fog surrounding them on the bank, unable to hide his anxiety.

"Understatement of the decade." Mozzie huffs under his breath.

Peter takes hold of one reluctant arm and pulls until Neal falls sideways into him. "Help me get him to the car,"

Mozzie gets on his other side and helps slide Peter's jacket onto Neal before they move him. "Where we going?"

"Hospital." Taking his phone out of the Jacket's inner pocket Peter pauses, fingers hovering over the lock screen before giving in and pressing the tiny buttons.

Mozzie catches the movement. "Suit no, you can't hand him over!"

"Mozzie," Peter breathes deep and desperate. "Look at him," he indicates Neal, leaning heavily against him, eyes closed, head lolling against his shoulder. "He needs help." It breaks him to say it, goes against everything he's tried to do since this mess started. "I've got to call it in."

Mozzie's desperate too, tone high, bouncing madly on the balls of his feet. "But the marshals will take him away and we won't get him back!"

"Mozzie." Peter stresses, upset himself. "I don't want to lose him either, but aside from the fact he's soaking wet and its freezing out here, we have no idea what she's given him, we're out of options."

His hands are shaking but he manages to punch in the final digit, gripping the handset and holding it to his ear, purposefully not looking at Neal who appears to have drifted off lying against him.

"You can protect him though, right suit?" Mozzie presses.

Peter heaves a deep sigh, feeling himself being ripped apart from the inside. "I'm going to do everything I can. I promise." The call connects and Peter feeds their location to Jones and by default, the marshal's, requesting EMS and back up.

Once they reach the road Neal's slightly steadier on is feet and Mozzie makes himself scarce at Peter's insistence. He can argue for himself, is willing to take the heat he knows is coming, but has no such immunity card for him if they both get caught aiding a fugitive.

Car in sight, Peter helps Neal keep a steady pace across the parking lot, listening out for the sound of sirens he hopes will soon be approaching in the distance.

"Peter?" Neal perks up. "I'm cold. Where we going?"

Peter looks over at him, shakes his head, tightening the arm held around his middle. "I'm taking you to the hospital."

"Why?"

"Because taking a dip in the river this late on a winters night can cause a few health problems."

Neal falls silent, Peter keeps them walking, only about twenty feet from the car now.

"Peter?"

"Yes Neal."

"Are you okay Peter?"

"Yes Neal."

"Peter?"

"What?" He snaps, sees the upset on Neal's face from out the corner of his eye, grinds his teeth and tries again. "I mean, what's up?"

He drops into silence and Peter thinks that's it, until…

"I'm sorry."

"You're sorry for what?"

"For running."

Peter nods. "It's okay, you didn't run. Not exactly." He fumbles the car keys out of his pants pocket, releases a held breath when he finds them exactly where they should be and not - as he suddenly feared - floating in the East River.

"But I did run." Neal stops them, planting his feet firmly with a strength Peter wouldn't have guessed he possessed right now. "I ran from you and Mozzie… then, then, Mozzie and… and-"

"Yeah okay, you're not thinking straight." Peter sighs, facing him without losing his grip. "I should have realised that." He tries to get him moving again, but Neal's new found strength makes him difficult to budge.

"No, I am thinking straight. I was… thinking…"

"What Neal?" Peter pushes irritably.

"I wanted you to be proud of me." Neal blinks at him, eyes as wide as saucers, looking up through damp lashes that are close to icing over.

Peter squeezes him tight on impulse. Though with that comment coming completely out of left field, he has to ask, "What makes you think I'm not?"

"Well, have I done anything, ever, for you to be  _truly_ proud of?"

Peter thins his lips and all but tries to think of a better answer than the one that immediately springs to mind. Neal drops his head instantly and stares at his feet in a dejected fashion, taking his silence as answer enough.

"Oh dear, Agent Burke. I don't think that's quite the answer Neal was hoping for," Kelly appears, drifting out of the snowy night like a spectre, a spectre with a 9mm at any rate, "was it, Neal?"

Peter gives Neal a sideways glance, shaking his head giving him the signal to hush. Whether the message got across Peter has no clue. "The marshals are on their way."

"Good for them." She says coolly, cocking her weapon and aiming at Neal.

Peter's had about enough. "What the hell is your game?"

"Oh, you mean you figured out the who and the what, but you still don't know why?" She drunkenly flicks her hair back, looking nothing like the non-descript nurse she'd posed as back in the clinic. "Maybe I want revenge?"

"You wouldn't go to these lengths for petty revenge." Peter smiles at her, calling her bluff.

"Kate and I had a plan. Plan fell through." She yawns as if she's told the story too many times and the whole thing is tiring. "This is my new plan. Collect a decent pay and end the two people who  _ruined everything_  a year ago!" She ends on a scream, but draws back suddenly, as if trying with great difficulty to rein herself in.

Peter's heart stutters at the conformation he's partly to blame, but rationalises this isn't the time to deal with any of that. He needs to stall until back up arrives, and with Neal mostly out of it, the talking is down to him. "You and Kate were working with Vincent Adler." He looks to Neal to see if he's capable of hearing any of this. "You knew about the plane. You knew what Alder intended to do."

"Kate had lost sight of our goal." She says in all sweetness, "Neal was never supposed to be a long-term part of the plan."

"You killed your own sister because she chose Neal over you?"

"Adler killed her." Rowland stiffens. "And now," she quickly relaxes, smiles even, waving her gun around. "I'm going to kill the two of you."

"Ah, no." Peter keeps his tone playful, "now's the part where I arrest you." He says through his own smile.

"For what?" Kelly laughs in his face.

"Murder and kidnaping should put you away for life." He pretends to think on it. "But even forgery can get you more time than you think."

"I should know." Neal mutters under his breath, the only indicator that he'd been listening to the exchange.

With Neal leaning heavily into him, assuming his strength is waning and with no marshals' or his team in sight, Peter readjusts his hold. "Alright, this isn't up for debate."

Putting his Agent hat on fully, subconsciously grabbing Neal less like a friend and more like a perp, he reaches for his gun, but his hand only meets air, in the second it takes to realise his holster's empty Neal breaks out of his grasp and points a gun –  _his gun!_  - at Rowland.

"Neal, what are you doing?! Put the gun down." Peter hollas in his best Agent Burke voice. "The marshal's will be here any minute, they see you with a weapon and they won't hesitate to shoot you!"

"No go ahead. Shoot me Neal!" Kelly's words and her maniac laughter echo through the air.

"Ignore her, listen to me Neal. Give me the gun." It took him weeks to stop having nightmares about that standoff with Fowler, after this debacle it'll take him months to sleep ever again! "Neal come on, talk to me."

"Shoot me Neal, then you can rot in prison and Peter here will have no choice but to stand by and watch." Kelly waves her own weapon, pointing it at Peter this time.

"You're in no position to be trying to piss me off." Peter breaks his focus temporally, struggling to work out if the woman is actually stable or not.

"Relax,  _Peter!_ " She laughs suddenly, giving a poor impersonation of Neal while leaning back on his car. "I've given him more than twice the dose I usually do… Trust me he has noooo idea what's happening. I bet he hasn't even got the strength to pull the trigger."

"Shut up!" Neal shouts at her, breaking his silence. Tears have built up in his eyes, seconds from falling down his cheeks.

Peter has no idea what's going through Neal's mind right now, but seeing him lose control, be so openly emotional, it drills home just how often the kid hides his true feelings. This thing growing between them, this friendship built on an uneven foundation of control and power, Peter suddenly realises it's doomed to blow up in their faces. His face to be exact. Because he holds all the cards, he has all the power. When Peter gets angry, Neal knows about it. When Peter is disappointed, Neal knows about. When Peter's had enough of the games, the tricks and misdirection – by god Neal knows about it. But, when Neal's upset or angry? Peter only finds out after he's done something stupid and impulsive, something that distracts from the why and makes everyone focus on the what. Neal's conning even when he doesn't need to, he's conning for self-preservation, because it's how he's learnt to behave and he knows nothing else.

Funny how it takes yet another a life-threatening situation for him to finally see what's been in front of him this entire time. Enough is enough. When this is over, once the threat of death and prison is off the table… when Kelly Rowland and Amber Terrel are facing the full impact of the law, Peter knows what he's got to do. It may not be what Neal intended when he asked to be placed in the care and custody of one Agent Peter Burke, but then Neal's not exactly got a good track record of knowing what's best for him. Somehow, in some strange twist of fate, that responsibility of knowing what is best for the kid has fallen to him and Peter's surprisingly ready to take on the role, one he hadn't in a million years seen himself filling for anyone, let alone the wildly irrepressible Neal Caffrey.

"Neal come on, listen to me." he asks softly, ignoring Kelly Rowland's crazy ramblings and approaching Neal slowly.

"Listen to Peter Neal," Kelly parrots in the background, dancing around, pretty unstable on her own feet herself.

"Shut up." Peter points at her, pretty sure watching her unhinged behaviour that his new theory is correct. Kelly Rowland isn't a criminal genius, she's a junkie and whatever she was capable of in the past, she's nowhere near capable of pulling any of this off by herself. "You're still going to prison."

"You're not wearing a wire Agent Burke," Rowland grins. "Nice try though."

"You just confessed to a federal Agent." Peter watches her move.

She steps closer, holding her gun to his head and whispers in his ear, all the while making direct eye contact with Neal. "Yeah, but that won't matter," she pauses, "seeing as Neal's going to shoot you."

"Neal's not going to shoot me," Peter looks at Neal, at his gun in Neal's hands pointed directly at him now since Rowland is using him as a shield.

"Pull the trigger Neal," Kelly speaks soothingly, "Or I will."

Peter hears the safety click off in his ear. "Neal," Peter begs softly. "Just put the gun down, it's okay."

"You know he's soooo easy to manipulate." She coos, "I can't believe he has such a good reputation as a con-artist. What Kate saw in him I'll never know."

Neal's gun makes the same click, but his resolve falters, gun lowering an inch.

"Hurry up Neal! Or I will shoot him!" Kelly screams down his ear, completely losing her faux cool.

"Well then, it's lose-lose either way, isn't it?" Peter irritatingly points out the utter madness of her ultimatum.

Neal releases a desperate sob at his proclamation.  _Shit._  He'd forgotten he's not only dealing with one unhinged person here. He knows Neal is a good shot thanks to Avery's little show, but after their near suffocating in the sealed comic book room and resulting Kate conversation they'd never discussed the why or how Neal learned to use a gun with such proficiency. Peter doesn't want to get shot by Rowland, but he is not convinced Neal can make a clean shot at her in his current state. Actually, strike that- he never wants Neal to make such a shot, even if it is to save his life. Making Neal a killer would achieve the exact opposite of what he's intended this entire time by agreeing to the anklet, by taking Neal under his protection and guidance to show him he can be good and live a decent law-abiding life.

"Neal, Neal listen alright," Peter holds his hands up in response. "You wanted to know if I've ever been proud of you?"

Neal, eyes fully black and as wide as saucers, nods.

"I have, I am,  _every day_. It isn't just about doing one thing. You make me proud every day you don't break the law, every time you tell me the truth and don't lie to me, every time you don't try to trick me or steal something under my nose." Peter swallows, he can hear back up approaching finally, the sirens in the distance getting louder. "You make me proud every time you chose to do the right thing."

Neal starts shaking, face crumpling, the gun wavering in his grasp. Next to him Kelly stiffens and her gun presses harder to his temple, she's getting more infuriated with every second that passes without her grand plan being fulfilled.

"Do the right thing Neal." He instructs him calmly. "Put the gun down."

"The right thing" Neal slurs, words slow and sluggish, like his tongue's too big for his mouth and he's not entirely sure what the words mean.

Peter prepares to duck out the way, heart beating out of his chest, anxiety levels reaching a peak. Everything's falling down, being torn apart, going to erupt any minute, and where the fuck are the god damn marshals?!

"Oh, for fucks sake!" Kelly screams angrily and pushes him away, withdrawing her weapon from Peter, pointing it directly at Neal.

"No!" Peter screams at the very same time a gunshot rings out. The loud crack echoing through the night, breaking the serene silence of a snowy winters' eve, leaving behind the smell of burning flesh and metal, and blood in the freezing air.


	13. Chapter 13

Peter feels cold. Really, really cold. Fingers as numb as his toes in his still wet shoes. Ruined shoes he reminds himself.

"Stand down," Dickerson appears out of nowhere. It's unclear who exactly he's talking to. "I said stand down!"

Neal immediately relinquishes Peter's gun and drops to his knees, suit getting a second soaking. Hands automatically clasping the back of his head in the familiar pose of an arrestee, a look of complete despair crossing his face. Peter, a little slow on the up take, picks up his gun, feels the thankfully cool metal beneath his finger tips and secures it back in his holster.

"She was going to kill you." Dickerson stops at Peter's side, watching his men approach Neal, cuffs out.

"I noticed." Peter nods, looking over at the body of Kelly Rowland laying sprawled across the parking lot, hole in her chest, blood oozing and tainting the freshly fallen snow.

"I didn't think that would be a good idea, you know, what with you being the only one able to keep this boy in line and all."

Neal is breathing heavily, looking dazed like he's just awoke from a terrible nightmare. Peter guesses in a way he probably has. His hands are cuffed and secured behind his back, but he's been left kneeling on the ground. Like no one quite knows what to do with him. When his gaze travels to the lifeless body, still uncovered not two feet to his left, Peter decides it's time to intervene.

"I'm sorry, Peter, you got to believe me I'm so, so sorry." Neal tells him earnestly when he crouches down in front of him.

"It's okay." He says softly, brushing the snow from his hair where it's gathering in his bangs and dripping into his eyes. "I forgive you."

Neal swallows and nods, turning his face away.

"Burke?"

"Just a sec." Peter says to the marshal hovering behind them. "Neal?" He whispers, reaching out a hand. Neal flinches as he settles a cold palm against the fever heated cheek. Peter ignores it. "Neal?" Peter calls again. "I need you to listen to me okay?" Neal nods. "You're going to the hospital, the cuffs will have to stay on, but I'm coming with you. You understand?"

Neal's silent, looking like he's thinking on that and Peter wonders if he can understand much of anything right now.

"You won't leave?" He challenges, voice as calm and collected as if they were just chatting in the office.

"I'll be there. I promise."

Neal nods again and accepts Peter's help to stand.

…

Neal's allowed to sit up in the back of the ambulance, a blanket tucked around him. A woman, about his age and pretty leans over and puts on his seat belt for him.

"I could have done that." He says without thinking.

"Neal," Peter warns as he takes a seat next to him.

Neal gives him a sideways glance, sees Peter doing up his own seat belt and hums his opinion of that.

"I don't like this." Neal's leg start jumping up and down. "Where are you taking us?" He aims his question at the woman.

"Neal," Peter reaches over and places a restraining hand on his bouncing knee. "We're going to the hospital. Like we discussed, remember?"

Neal shakes his head. No. No, he doesn't actually. "I, I'm okay. I have somewhere to go-"

He feels he states his intention very clearly and in making his move to stand doesn't expect any kind of resistance, although somewhere in his smart mind the thought does occur that Peter probably won't like it if he leaves. As it turns out- that thought was correct.

"Ah, no you don't Houdini." Peter roughly grabs him by the collar before Neal even manages to get his butt off the seat. "Sit." He slaps his hands -his cuffed hands Neal realises the second he tries to undo his seat belt. "I'm ordering you to sit down and stay quiet."

"You can't do that." Neal whines automatically.

He's staring at the cuffs, wondering how he never noticed them and why he let them be put on so tight.

"You were very repentant at the time." Peter answers his un-verbalised question. "Neal," a slightly chilled hand covers his cuffed and clasped ones. "I think your inside thoughts are all on the outside. In a manner of speaking."

Neal continues staring at Peter. Doesn't know what else to do.

"You don't need to do anything except sit there, be quiet and then let the doctors examine you, okay?" Peter's grip gets tighter on his.

"Shut up. Got it." Neal nods.

Neal fails. He knows he does because on their relatively short journey, no matter how hard he tries he can't stop his brain from thinking things. And apparently whatever he was thinking was actually coming out of his mouth and Neal had no idea or control to stop it. The marshals were watching him still, even now. They had always told him to be quiet, to stop asking annoying questions and here he is, giving away secrets. Secrets he isn't supposed to share, with anyone. Ellen had warned him he couldn't say anything and even though he's not seen her in years, he still follows her advice. But Peter's Peter, as he's already reconciled with himself. So surely, surely, it's okay to share this with him, isn't it?

Neal falls forward, Peter catching him at the last second as the ambulance comes to a sudden stop. Double doors open at the back; Peter, the pretty woman and the marshal are quickly ushered out. He's still restrained.

"Where are you going?" Neal sits forward, voice rising in alarm.

He tugs on his restraints, reaching around himself to undo his seat belt, but by the time he gets the cuffs off, himself free and launches at the doors they shut in his face. The inside of the ambulance is plunged into darkness. Neal presses his hands and face against the little square windows, he can see a slither of light, people moving about but the view is distorted.

"Peter!" Neal bangs on the metal doors, they give a little on impact but not enough to open. "Peter I'm sorry! Don't," he swallows down hard, fear his current driving force, "don't leave me!"

But the figure he thinks resembles Peter just walks away into the night. Neal's hands slide down the door panel and he slips onto his butt, back to the doors, huddling on the floor of his makeshift prison. He wraps both arms tight around his middle to stave of the cold and only when the cuffs of his jacket fall below his hands does he realise it's not his jacket. Taking a look at the inner lining and label, Neal identifies it immediately as belonging to Peter. He pulls it tighter around him, lowers his face into the collar and takes a couple of minutes to just think.

While he's doing that a wave of dizziness hits. Can you even get dizzy sitting down? Neal closes his eyes, hoping that will make it go away, but it only gets worse -images, people, places, faces he does and doesn't know flash against his eyelids.

Neal?

"Peter?" Neal opens his eyes on instinct and finds he's greeting a bright white light. "Hello?" He sits forward.

As the light fades the confines of the ambulance go with it and he suddenly finds himself standing in the middle of a deserted corridor. It's dark again, dark and… quiet. He listens carefully, holds his breath, but there's nothing. Standing there, all alone and near suffocating, he can't hear a damn thing. Neal lets out his held breath in a choking cough. He tries to move, but on his first step his knees give out, sending him crashing to the floor.

It takes a second or two to really notice the change, but the first clue is the damp chill against his hands, they're splayed out front to keep him from faceplanting the ground. The cold snow-covered ground, Neal realises when he opens his eyes for the second time. Shock has him jumping up, with an energy and coordination he doesn't remembering having a minute ago. Spinning on the spot he finds he's still alone, but the corridor is no longer a corridor - it's a road. A road without anything on either side, just blackness….

Not blackness he discovers, walking closer to the edge. Water. There's water below the road. A road suspended in mid-air. A light with a red glow illuminates a metal bar running out into the ether, dropping into the darkness. Neal's feet follow the path laid before him without thought. His mind is curious… reaching the edge, toes tipping over the precipice and looking down he can see the water beneath him, flowing fast and free. Looking back around him, at the empty road - no bridge he corrects. He was on a bridge. The gaps suddenly fill and the scene comes to life. There are still no people, but the New York skyline is in there in background. Sounds and sights of the city can be heard in the distance, but out on the crossbars, Neal is still alone. Hopelessly and eternally alone.

In the back of his mind Neal recalls people and places, but nothing sticks. Mostly he just feels the distance presence of having had something once and losing it again, now all he feels is… empty.

Empty.

The skyline starts to move, slowly tips to the side.

Alone.

Neal feels like he's on a swing, only gravity never takes over and brings him back to earth.

He gasps, had expected water to fill his lungs the second he hit the shimmering surface which he'd approached at what felt like great speed, but when only air greets him he chokes. Sounds, lights, feeling, it all rushes back, assaulting his senses with intensity. Sheer panic takes over, internally at any rate. Neal still has enough awareness about him to keep up a façade on the outside. Or so he thinks-

"Neal," Peter's face slips into view, looking down on him, blocking out the bright lights from above.

Neal furrows his brow, "where'd you go?"

"I've been here the whole time."

"No, no you were gone. Everyone was gone." He tries to sit up, but his fingers slip on the bars of his hospital bed, he can't get a grip on anything. "You left me."

"Neal you passed out on the way here,"

A nurse steps in between them, removes something tight from around his arm. "He's hypotensive." She tells someone else out of Neal's eyeline.

"He's not making any sense." Peter's anxiety is clear.

"Peter," Neal pulls on his friend's shirt sleeve to get his attention. He looks at him with beseeching eyes, ill prepared for the words that want to escape his own traitorous mouth, "I want to go home."

And just like that he breaks into a sob. It erupts full force, taking over his entire being, followed by another and another and another, and Neal's mortified and scared and angry all at the same time, but he just. can't. stop!

Arms gather him up with urgency, his face is pressed against a heavily heaving chest. The water, he remembers the feel of the water swallowing him whole.

"There's no water Neal, you're safe." Peter whispers into his ear, "you're in hospital and you're safe. I've got you."

…

"I've got you." Peter repeats. Over and over and over again. His voice breaking a little more each and every time.

The nurse who'd just finished taking his blood pressure when Neal suddenly woke up had lowered the beds guard rail for him, allowing him to sit on the covers and hold his friend close.

"Agent Burke, we'll be back in a minute."

Peter nods at the doctor and nurse who had been taking Neal's vitals after his transfer to the medical assessment unit. Too choked up himself to speak. He thought things had been going well up until now, Neal had been pretty lucid, if a little loopy on the trip over. Verbalising every thought that entered that criminal little brain of his. It would have been funny too, if the reason behind the inane chatter wasn't so tragic.

"Shut up. Got it." Neal had agreed, nodding like a bobble head on a dashboard.

In that moment Peter was reminded of the Howser Clinic. The way Neal looked at him from the floor of that conference room, telling him he was the only one he trusted. To keep that position on his own personal Neal Caffrey pedestal, Peter had fully intended to spend the rest of the ride in silence. Knowing full well any kind of conversation could lead to some confessions he'd be hard pressed to explain to their very own marshal body guard sitting staring at them from the corner. So, Peter let his mind drift, tried to push the last few hours, hell the last few days, right out of his mind. Just for a little while.

Of course, Neal had other ideas.

"I don't need looking after." He had started with.

It was harmless, and mostly true Peter considered. Neal was an independent and very resourceful young man. But whereas Peter knew Neal's psychology; his likes and his dislikes, could predict how he may react in almost any situation, he knew very few facts about his life - true ones at any rate. Neal dropped a breadcrumb here and there during cases, like when he said he hadn't graduated High School and had never enrolled as a student at any American college campus. The one about his dad being a dirty cop though, that had been a bombshell.

Peter had always been intrigued about Neal's past, his family. He's never hid the fact he'd like to know more about who made Neal Caffrey the man he is today. To satisfy his own curiosity, complete the picture so to speak, but part of him wanted to work out where it all went wrong for the kid too, so he could understand, and maybe try and fix it.

"I can't rely on people, you see."

"You can rely on me." Peter answered instinctively. Forgetting his vow to remain quiet and not take advantage of Neal in his current state. "You trust me, remember."

Neal turned his head and looked him in the eye, "But I don't trust them," his gaze slid to the side.

Peter bites the inside of his cheek so not to laugh at the disgruntled marshal giving them the evil eye. "He's harmless."

It was his intention to help Neal relax, nothing more. He never expected what came next.

"No, they are not. They steal people."

"Steal people?"

"Take them away and you can never see them again. I haven't seen my mom since I ran away from home."

He said it so indifferently, if Peter hadn't been listening closely he might have just nodded absently, agreed and moved on.

"Neal, are you telling me your Mom is in witness protection?" The question got asked but went unanswered, Neal had given in to the exhaustion that had been plaguing him and finally fallen asleep.

The marshal in the corner had remained conspicuously silent on the issue, so the rest of the journey was completed in silence. Neal remained in his semi-comatose state - which he was assured was nothing serious by every medical professional he asked – throughout his initial ER exam and removal of his still wet clothes. They cut the suit pants and shirt off, but Peter did manage to save his own Jacket. After warming him up with heat pads Peter travelled with Neal up to the medical assessment unit for monitoring.

That's how he ended up being there when Neal finally opened his eyes and the cycle of despair started all over again. Speaking of which, having been lost so deeply in his thoughts, it took a long time for Peter realise Neal's crying had died down, leaving him limp in Peter's arms.

"Something's wrong." He calls to the nurse he hadn't noticed before now was back in the room.

As if having been waiting for her presence to be noted she steps over calmly and presses her fingers to Neal's neck. "Pulse is steady," she confirms. "He's just exhausted."

"Him and me both," Peter chuckles, trying to bring some light to the darkness that seems to be all consuming and never ending at the moment.

"You may want to take the opportunity to get some rest yourself," she advises.

Peter gently lowers Neal back on the bed, turning him on his side, placing both hands under his chin in a position he knows the kid finds comfortable and tucks the covers around him. "I told him I wouldn't leave."

"Agent?"

"Peter." He smiles tiredly.

"Peter," the nurse returns with one of her own, "you'll be no use to him if you don't look after yourself. And if you get trench foot because you didn't change out of soaking wet shoes…"

Still sat on the bed Peter looks down at himself, his pants had mostly dried but there was still the water stain evident from his dip in the river. His shoes however squished every time he moved, the water inside soaked into the leather felt warm to him now, he guesses that's how he'd forgotten all about his own situation.

"You're right." He sighs, "and my wife would no doubt agree."

"Your wife sounds like a smart woman."

Peter slides off the bed and raises the guardrail. "I won't be long." He announces quietly, gripping Neal's blanket covered foot before leaving the room.

The second he steps out into the corridor he's greeted by the last person he wants to see.

"Why are you hovering out here?" Peter tries to storm past.

"Coffee?"

A dejected Peter takes the offered coffee from Dickerson with a grumbled "thanks" and continues to walk down the corridor.

"Burke, you did the right thing." Dickerson calls after him.

"Save it," Peter snaps, turning back around, "the only reason I called is because the alternative was worse." He chooses to pace, in a corridor bereft of activity and smelling strongly of peroxide. "Look, Neal is innocent, he was being repeatedly drugged and whatever he did, it wasn't his choice. You can't take him back to prison."

Dickerson steps into his path, and in an unexpected move and uncharacteristic fashion softly asks, "Can you prove any of that?"

Peter eyes the man wearily, looks to the room he's just exited and puts two and two together. He wants to push the man out of his way and out of the hospital. He was the reason Neal had to run from his house in the first place. He was the reason Neal ended up in Kelly Rowlands hands and Peter had to live through that nightmare scenario where Neal held a gun on someone for a second time. He's the reason Neal, his Neal, a kid so proud, so smart and funny and bright was just sobbing his heart out in his arms.

"His tox screen will prove he wasn't in control of his actions tonight."

"Proof of drugs isn't proof of innocence." Dickerson scoffs, putting him back in the same category as Fowler in Peter's mind, and once again a step closer to being punched. "Maybe the kid dosed himself because he didn't have the nerve to go through with it otherwise or just couldn't face what he'd done."

"Neal's never physically hurt anyone," he answers subdued, hands remaining fixed at his side. Because regardless of what breakdown the marshal may or may not have witnessed, keeping Neal out of jail had to remain Peter's end goal. Dickerson was his last hope in making that happen.

"Not what it looked like, or did I imagine the gun he had pointed at your head?"

"And he's never willingly taken drugs." Peter growls, ignoring the jibe.

"So, he is familiar with drug use?"

"Not officially." Peter skims over that, pushing memories of flirting and clinics to the back of his mind. "We've confirmed the presence of Psilocybin, Ketamine and Ambien from a previous blood test, we will get evidence from a hair strand to prove time frame and it'll support our theory."

"Doesn't prove intent, like I said he could have taken the drugs willing or maybe you dosed him to cover your own ass. Your CI involved in a forgery ring doesn't look good on your record." Dickerson's lips curl. "You were insistent to have him stay with you, then purposefully prevented me from finding him after he ran away again. Gave you the perfect window of opportunity to set up a cover story."

"Why- I wouldn't do THAT." Peter involuntarily points back at the room, in his mind reliving the inconsolable sobbing. "Neal nearly died! I wanted him to stay with me because he didn't do this…" The images in his head of Neal standing on that ledge, in the water, holding the gun - he wanted to forget. He needed to forget.

"Okay, okay. Burke, say I believe you about the drugs. He's still a convicted felon serving a current sentence. So, I'll ask you again - what actual proof have you got your boy wasn't involved?" Dickerson projects, "because that's what the DJO are gonna ask."

"Amber Terrell is our only lead." He hears himself say with a heavy sigh, because Peter knows he's right. They have some conjecture but with Rowland dead, despite her confession, they have no hard stand up in court evidence that actually exonerates Neal. "She appears on the same camera that puts Neal at the original crime scene."

"And? What's her connection to your boy? Or the dead woman?"

Peter feels his hackles rising again at the arrogant tone, but forces calm. He hates the devil's advocate routine but can admit listening to an unbiased voice is probably a good idea right now.

"She was involved with Carlton Hayes."

"One of the FBI's most wanted Y2K Carlton Hayes?"

"It's complicated." Peter sighs, knowing how weak that sounds, "but I'm telling you, Neal was being used as a patsy. So was Kelly Rowland," he sees the confusion and answers before Dickson can ask. "She didn't have the capacity to pull this off by herself. Trust me."

"Complicated." Dickerson shakes his head.

"My team are going through the room where the forgeries were made right now, if Terrel has been there we'll know about it."

"And that's all you got? It's coincidental at best."

"It's enough to start an investigation."

"Into what? Jay walking?" Dickerson laughs, "you have lots of crazy theory but no real hard evidence of a crime beyond the murdered gallery assistant and video – which I know about by the way," the marshal narrows his eyes, "that implicates your CI and the dead girl in creating forgeries. No one else."

"Kelly Rowland admitted to drugging and framing Neal. She just tried to kill him!"

"And she's dead. Not a very good witness."

"She was a killer, not a witness!" Peter breathes deep and reins it in. "Look, we have the fact that Neal, in all his suspected crimes, never hurt anyone, ever. Suddenly we're expected to accept he changed his M.O overnight and committed a murder. None of it makes sense."

"I'm sorry Burke, obviously there's more to this than meets the eye, but while you sort this mess out the kid's going back to jail. I still maintain he'd be safer there anyway in the long run."

"No, he won't!" Peter practically stomps his feet. "You just saw him lose it in there! The kid is scared to death and you want to throw him in a cell with people he's helped me put away? No prison is going to be safe for him."

Dickerson makes a face like he might actually care. "Burke, I see you're motivated but in the end my hands are tied. My job is to bring him in. That's it. You need to talk to the local PD."

"In 2000 Terrell cut a deal to stay out of jail, went off the grid after flipping on Hayes. She was a witness. That IS your responsibility."

"You're saying she's in witsec?"

Peter can tell that's gained his interest and pushes some more. "There's no record or sighting of her for eight years and suddenly she appears at the scene of a crime my C.I - my drugged C.I - is accused of committing?"

"Agent Burke?" One of his team whom had been assigned to guard the floor appears at the end of the corridor. "Agent Hughes wants you to call him, says its urgent."

Peter gives Dickerson a pleading look, taking his phone out and silently making his way down the corridor.

…

Hours later Peter finds himself in a change of clothes thanks to Jones and holding a warm coffee, staring at a hospital bed housing one still sleeping C.I.

Or so he thought.

"You going to stand there all day?"

Peter blinks out of his stupor and strolls closer to the bed. "You're awake."

"Apparently." Neal grimaces, tries and fails to sit up. "Something tells me I don't want to be though." He lifts and drops his arm indicating the IV.

"Remember anything?"

Neal looks like he does, but shakes his head slowly, eyes with that familiar glazed and worried quality, begging Peter to fix everything. The faith in his abilities is humbling, Peter only wishes he could live up to it. Neal is hours away from being thrown into solitary and there isn't a damn thing he can do about it.

"I'm in trouble, aren't I?"

Peter can't lie to that face. Despite nearly a decade of intertwining history and most definitely not being innocent Peter still sees Neal as a naive kid who's never quite learned what it means to be a grown-up. And after all the revelations over the last four days, he doesn't see that changing. Peter doesn't remember ever being that young, which makes it even more difficult to see the hurt and honest confusion on Neal's face whenever reality doesn't quite live up to his expectations.

"The marshals are here. They have a warrant for your arrest."

"They taking me to Rikers?"

"Hey," Peter moves from his chair to sit on the bed. "I'm not letting them take you anywhere while you're like this. Doctors say you've got at least 12 hours observation before they'll even think about releasing you."

"Then what?"

Peter doesn't have an answer for that, not a good one at any rate. He needs to see Hughes to check he still has a badge first. His dejected sigh must have communicated that things were not going well because Neal's hand is suddenly reaching out for his, giving a little squeeze, telling him everything he needed to know right now.


	14. Chapter 14

The morning comes too soon for Peter. After spending the night slumped in the plastic chair beside Neal's bed, he really needs coffee and a shower, but his phone's ringing and Hughes' assistant summoning him to the office signals the short reprieve he'd been granted yesterday is over. It's time to face the consequences of his actions over the last four days. Neal's still asleep, like he has been on and off since his emotional outburst yesterday. The one they haven't spoken a word about yet. Much like the one at his house the other evening and the one on the bridge before that. He means to, really, he does. He promised El after all. But he's not alone in his avoidance. Neal certainly hasn't brought any of it up during his brief moments of lucidity, and with the drugs still making their way out of his system Peter's inclined to follow his lead. They need to talk obviously, and he fully intends to keep his promise to his wife, but timing is everything where Neal's concerned. He's learnt that the hard way.

Peter runs a hand through his hair and stretches, then takes a moment to watch Neal's chest rise and fall, shaking his head at the absurdity of it all. Twelve short months ago Neal Caffrey was nothing more than a name brought up around the FBI watercooler.

" _Hey, remember that guy who sent champagne to the surveillance van?"_

Peter never forgot who Neal was, how could he? Kid sent him birthday and Christmas cards like clockwork for all four years of his sentence. Peter never responded back, eyebrows would have been raised higher-up if he tried, but when his thoughts drifted to the irrepressible young man and the urge to know how the kid was doing hit, he'd drop a call to the prison and get an update. All under the pretence of future planning of course, after all, Neal wouldn't be behind bars forever – or so he had thought. Seeing him face to face for the first time since his sentencing in that empty loft, so broken, lost and alone, accepting another four years with indifference Peter couldn't help but feel a little sorry that his story didn't have a happier ending.

Now twelve months on, the story is completely different. Neal has gone from someone he arrested, and only occasionally thought about, to someone who occupies his thoughts and guest bedroom on a regular basis. El and Neal are the two most important people in his life.

Even in  _his_  head that doesn't make sense!

Peter blames Neal for it whole heartedly. He has an infectious personality which makes you want to pet him and strangle at the same time. If the kid wasn't so damn loveable, with his honest shyness and unassuming manner - and yes, he's aware if he actually described Neal like that to  _anyone_ at the FBI they'd be calling the shrink on him, but that's who Neal truly is deep down - Peter gets that now. Probably thinks he always knew there was an unfathomable vulnerability beneath that cocky bravado. He just never let himself acknowledge the whole 'confidence act' as more than a way to break the law before because if he had it would have been impossible to put him in jail, where Neal's crimes dictated he belonged. Which, Peter guesses, is why he has such a problem with the idea of sending the kid to prison now.

Counting this whole mess as one, Neal has now broken down and cried openly in his arms twice in the short time they've been partners, there's been other times he's come close, but only twice has he thrown the mask aside and let himself be completely vulnerable in front of him. Falling apart after watching the love of his life perish in flames doesn't even needed to be questioned, yesterday's sobbing though, drugs or no, there's more to it. Peter can feel it.

He has an idea what that something is, but like he's already established, timing is everything and there are more pressing matters at hand. Like keeping his badge and proving Neal innocent of murder in the next - he checks his watch - three hours forty minutes. With his deadline set Peter wastes no more time debating on a friendship he can't explain and leaving a message with the nurse in case Neal wakes up before he's back, Peter heads into White Collar. Giving the guard outside a respectable nod on the way out.

…

"Peter," Hughes greets neutrally from the visitor's chair in Peter's office.

"Reece?"

"Take a seat."

Peter does as he's instructed and Hughes watches him carefully. Seeing the hunched shoulders and tired gaze, taking his time over shutting the door and eventually moving around the desk to take his seat, Reece knows his agent's preparing for the worst.

"I wasn't expecting you to come to me." Peter fidgets, fingers tapping a steady rhythm against his restless knee.

Reece smiles. He likes throwing his people off their game. "I know it's Sunday, but I figured you'd want to get this over and done with."

Peter sighs, leaning forward to place both palms flat on his desk, a pensive frown marring his brow, looking like he's very carefully reciting what he wants to say in his head before saying it out loud.

"I know I went against the bureau on this one and I'll accept whatever I have coming-"

"Damn right you will." Reece snaps, angry that his agents had essentially gone rogue and worked against the US marshals, but his tone quickly softens upon reminding himself exactly  _why_  Peter had made those risky decisions. Whether he approves of it or not, Caffrey had become an intricate part of Peter Burke's life. "How's he doing?"

Peter slumps back in his seat. "The drugs are playing hell with his system. Doesn't remember much still, or so he says. Fever, chills, confusion..." he breathes out, looking hesitant to share but like he'll need hospitalising himself if he doesn't. "He seems stable for now but…" He ends on a shrug.

Reece nods, knowing there's much more, but respecting his desire not to share too much. "Peter, you realise what position you put the department in when you removed Caffrey from under the watch of the marshals?"

"He's my responsibility." Peter stands firm.

"He's our responsibility." Reece wants to make that damn clear. Caffrey is every one's headache. "My name is on his work release forms too."

"Reece the marshal's they…" Peter pauses, takes a deep breath, "I was just trying to keep him safe."

"I know." Hughes nods. "Any idea when he'll be discharged?"

"He's on antibiotics for prolonged exposure to the water, but aside from the side effects of the drugs he's essentially healthy. Should be okay to leave sometime this morning."

It should be good news, but the desolation in his tone is hard to miss. Reece sits back in his chair, takes a minute to assess the man he considers a good agent and friend. Peter looks worn, black marks under his eyes and a stiffness to his posture indicative of having spent the night sleeping in a chair. The idea of Caffrey going back to prison is a concept all of them should be prepared to accept, but looking at his agent now, he's certain if it were to happen that would be the end of Peter Burke as Reece knows him.

"Then I guess we better get on with this," he pauses and let's Peter believe the worse, for his own gratification more so than anything. He can't have his Agents going rogue every day damnit, even if it is for good reason, "so I can get my best agent and his C.I back to work."

Hughes' smug smile widens at the surprise on Peter's face. He lets the stare-off last less than a few seconds because he's positive Peter will explode with questions if he doesn't put him out of his misery. "The marshals called while you were still at the hospital, their man Dickerson-"

"-marshal Marshall Dickerson?" Peter's grin widens.

"I refuse to call him that." Reece emphasises with a double finger point, trying to smother his own amusement. "It appears he took your unsupported allegations seriously and went looking for this Terrell woman."

"They found her?"

"Turns out that's what the marshal's do best. Caffrey excluded," He allows himself a small smile of pride at that, but whether it's for Peter's ability to find Neal or Caffrey's ability to evade the US marshals he isn't sure. Probably a little of both. "She was supposed to be living on a secluded ranch in the Colorado Rockies. Funny thing about secluded locations, it's hard to know when someone's missing."

"What was she doing in New York?"

"That's what we're planning to ask her."

Peter blinks, stands and stumbles back, has to grab the chair for support. "She's here?"

Reece waits a beat for the good news to settle. "Dickerson brought her in less than an hour ago. I've arranged for Jones and Diana to collect Caffrey from the hospital-" Peter opens his mouth to interrupt and he quickly shuts him up with a raised hand. "They're taking him to your house and will sit on him until this is resolved. Which will be sometime today Agent Burke, is that clear?"

A true smile grows on Peter's face for the first time since this crap-fest started. "Yes sir."

….

"Marshal Dickerson." Peter holds out his hand.

Dickerson looks at it before relenting, "You don't owe me Burke. I was doing my job, when someone's on the run I will move every rock to make sure they are brought to justice. That includes your boy Caffrey."

"Fair enough, but thank you anyway."

They share a look that signals they'll certainly never be friends; however, a mutual professional understanding has been reached.

"So," Peter turns, looks through the one-way glass and indicates the woman sat alone in the interrogation room, "catch me up."

"Turns out Amber Terrell has been in contact with her former boss Carlton Hayes for the past two years, which violates her deal." Dickerson nods, exuding a smug smile. "Seems while you were assisting Caffrey to evade arrest she was getting ready to put the final part of her plan into action. We found evidence of communications dating back to 2007. Details of the investigation against the company and on the search for Hayes. Looked like they were using the ranch as a base to store intel on several computer servers. Everything run off the grid via satellites can you believe that? Your FBI geek counterparts are going through it now."

"Now we just need to connect her to the forgeries, robbery and murder." Peter's excited at the prospect.

"Well that's your job not mine." The marshal dismisses, suddenly feigning disinterest. "I just bring them in. What happens afterwards is none of my concern."

Peter nods in understanding, not buying a word of it. "Look," he starts awkwardly. "I realise the lines are blurred where Caffrey's concerned, but thank you." He hesitates, a move that Dickerson notices.

"Okay, what?"

"I'm going to ask you for another favour." Peter says cryptically, handing over a folded piece of paper.

"Another one," Dickerson grumbles good naturedly. He takes it, reads it and without another word tips his chin, leaving with a very Caffrey-esque spring to his step.

Confident he's done as much as he can there, Peter refocuses his brain power on how he's going to break Terrell when Jones walks in. "I thought you were collecting Neal?"

"We did." Jones positions himself next to Peter, slumping against the glass. "Diana's staying with him, as is your wife."

"El's home?" Peter looks at his phone, discovering the missed calls.

"She said to tell you they're fine, and not to miss dinner." Jones tries, and fails, to smother a yawn.

Peter smiles brightly, "Okay then. Seems we're both on a deadline. Let's do this."

…

When Peter tiptoes through the door to his home hours later it's already dark outside and the cool winter air creeps in with him. Diana's sat at the table with El, both drinking coffees in the low lighting of the lamp. He offers them a grateful smile and quickly makes his way over, greeting his wife with the kiss she so rightly deserves.

"God, I missed you." They hug for all their worth, like they've not seen each other in months.

"Yeah, I hear it's been an eventful weekend." El turns in his grasp to wink at Diana.

"You can never leave again." He jokes, sneaking in another quick squeeze before letting her go.

"Is it over?"

El's question has both woman looking at him intently, an unspoken order to provide good news. Peter turns without answering and retraces his steps back through the living room, El on his heels. Both Burke's hover over the sleeping, blanket covered lump on their couch.

Peter bends down, runs one hand through Neal's damp, curly, gel free hair splayed over the little green throw cushion. "How's he been?"

"Quiet." Diana answers from her seat at his dining room table, displaying a satisfied grin that says his worlds have collided in more ways than with just Neal.

"He refused to go to bed until you were home." El smiles, nodding at the man in question, curled into an impossibly small ball, quiet as a god damn mouse.

Peter rests his palm against Neal's forehead, "still too warm."

"Temperature's been up and down, but the doctor said that's to be expected for a few days."

Diana actually sounds like she cares, which she does, he knows, just not usually in such an obvious way. Neal being unconscious probably has a lot to do with it. Peter chooses to nod and not ask any more questions. His head is full of fears, images of Neal; Neal holding a gun on him, Neal standing precariously close to a slippery ledge, Neal falling and disappearing below the dark surface of the East river, you name it he's imagined it. Those feelings aren't leaving him, Peter knows, and he also knows you don't need to be living out of the other person's pocket for their near death to affect you. Begrudgingly or not Diana likes Neal, therefore seeing him like that, nearly losing him, it's going to change things.

His hand must have lingered too long… "You're home?" Neal shuffles beneath his touch and sleepily blinks up at him.

"Hey buddy," Peter's smile is soft and genuine as drops next to him, squeezing onto the cushions. "How you feeling?"

"Like roadkill," Neal hisses, briefly closing his eyes and turning over to lie flat. "What happened?"

Peter swipes the too hot forehead again, brushing the damp locks out of his eyes. "Well you got yourself drugged. Again. And I had to catch you. Again."

"I meant with Amber." Neal smiles dopily, taking the hit as intended.

Peter doesn't bother asking how he knew she was in custody, already certain he nagged Jones and Diana the second they showed up at the hospital to bring him home. "She confessed to hiring Rowland to swap out original paintings for forgeries at the gallery. It's how she was funding her little operation, but since it resulted in a murder she's being charged as an accessory." Peter says sombrely. "She claims anything Rowland did outside of that wasn't part of anyone's plan, but then that's what you get for hiring a crazy person."

Neal closes his eyes, stays that way for a while before opening them again. He doesn't ask any more question about Terrell.

"Marshals coming for me?" His voice is resigned and all Peter wants to do is hug the despair right out of him.

"No," he settles for a pat to his chest instead. "Everyone agrees you're a victim in this. The forgeries you made will go into evidence, you're a witness to a violent crime and there's enough extenuating circumstances that you won't be charged for anything you did under the influence. You may have to testify, but given her history I'm sure she'll make a deal."

He can hear El breathe a sigh of relief beside him. It takes Neal a moment longer for all the information to sink in and settle, but Peter waits patiently and eventually the words he knows are coming hit the air.

"She wanted revenge for Kate." Neal has the grace to avoid eye contact, focusing on the blanket pooled in his lap, bunching it in his fists and pulling at the weak strands of wool until the edge is horrendously misshapen.

"She wanted revenge for herself." Peter corrects, knowing they were talking about Rowland now and not at all feeling the usual smugness for being right. "They both used you for their own gain." Peter sighs. "If we hadn't looked closer then I dare say their plan might have succeeded."

"You mean if you hadn't vouched for me with the marshals?" Neal looks up adoringly.

Peter turns away, unable to deal with the kid bestowing him with praise he doesn't deserve. "Neal there's something I need to tell you-"

"I know if it wasn't for you I'd have been sent back to prison and no one would have looked beyond the surface evidence. I owe you my life." Neal smiles warmly. "Again."

"If it wasn't for the murder," Peter couldn't find the words that wouldn't hurt.

"You saying you might not have believed me?"

On hearing the plea, El squeezes his shoulder and steps away. Peter internally thanks her, but still he can't answer Neal's question. At the time he hadn't questioned anything, not beyond the surface, but since getting the confession he needed, the urgency dying down, Peter embarked on a ritual he completes after every closed case. He sat in his office and evaluated his thoughts, his actions. Most he's managed to come to terms with, but there was one thought, one action that gave him pause and after everything they've been through, all the tears and confessions, Peter doesn't feel right keeping it to himself.

If the gallery assistant hadn't been killed in front of Neal the plan might well have gone off without a hitch. Neal would have been implicated in the break in and when the forgeries were found, with Kate's sister as his fence, why wouldn't Peter, with all the evidence, not believe it possible Neal was involved? As it was, witnessing the murder under the influence of drugs affected Neal so severely he tried to throw himself off the Brooklyn Bridge. Neal's behaviour after that, it was all so out of character Peter had every reason to believe there was more going on.

"I'm saying… I'm sorry." Peter sighs long and hard, keeping it short and sweet and hoping to god Neal doesn't hate him for it. "For all those times I don't believe you when I really should."

The silence stretches, Neal staring, wide eyed and totally unreadable.

"Okay you need to stop now," he laughs finally. "I'm sick, still feeling the after effects of psychedelic drugs and liable to burst into tears any minute." He punctuates his statement with, of all things a wide yawn, which appears to take him by surprise if the blush is anything to go by.

Peter chuckles, relaxing immediately. "Okay, I'll stop." He watches Neal's light smile fade, the dark circles under his eyes standing out in even greater clarity. Peter takes an arm, pulling him to sit up. "We should get you to bed."

Neal let's Peter manoeuvre him as he pleases, raising his voice as he stands. "Elizabeth's home now, don't you think she'll mind me sharing your bed?"

" _Neal_ ," Peter growls, looking to the women sitting at the table watching them, trying not to laugh. "It's not what it sounds like."

"Peter, I'm hurt." Neal starts walking up the stairs without support. "Did that night mean nothing?"

Running away from the amused chuckling of his wife and junior agent Peter catches him up. "Get upstairs." He gives Neal an angry nudge, practically pushing him up the last few steps.

….

Neal feels the hand in his back and moves up the stairs with greater urgency. Pulling away from his consummate helper once he reaches the landing, Neal makes it as far as the bedroom door before the inevitable happens. He had sensed it coming, the familiar wave of dizziness that's been plaguing him on and off since this whole mess started.

"Damn it, Neal!" Peter curses seconds after he hits the floor with a resounding thump.

Buffering himself against the master bedroom door frame Neal rolls until his back is pressed against the wall and takes a minute to assimilate to his predicament before trying to solve it.

Peter's glaring down at him. "You going to lie there all day?" He asks much more quietly.

Squinting up at him, he looks sorry Neal thinks. "I'm considering it." He answers lightly, trying to restore some dignity. "Of course, sleeping outside your bedroom door like Satchmo isn't my first choice but…"

"Alright, get up."

Disgruntled Neal grimaces when Peter grabs his arm and drags him up without care or grace, like he's a tiny child, fit to be moved around at his parent's every whim. "You're mean."

"It happens when I get no sleep and stuck babysitting a pain in the ass." Peter pushes him towards the bathroom.

He stumbles through the doorway, grabbing hold of the sink for support. "Well you could let me go home."

"Yeah," Peter disappears for a second, returning with a pile of clothes which is quickly placed on the heated towel rail. "Nice try."

Neal feigns a disappointed look and let's Peter help him wash up and change into pyjamas without a fight. It should feel weird, having his privacy violated in such a way, but this is their dance. Peter invades his space, treats him like an incompetent toddler and Neal lets him while complaining about it. As much as he misses his apartment and the space it affords, Neal really doesn't want to be alone right now. Likewise, he knows Peter actually doesn't mind having him here. He knows this because although he maybe a stand-up guy, Peter is an FBI Agent at heart. He had no qualms leaving him in that filthy motel with the dog and so he'd have had no issues with him recovering in his apartment. No one said he needed supervision and June would have been more than happy to keep him company if they did. Peter wants him here, where he can see him and more than anything Neal likes being seen, especially by Peter. It's a win/win for both of them.

Before Prison – the first time - Neal would have had to commit a crime or pull off some magnificent stunt to get his attention, but since they've been partners Peter's spent plenty of time with him, even if all he's doing is reading through a case file. Peter involves him in cases he could solve with his eyes closed. And it doesn't escape Neal's notice just how often Peter has him in his office, asking him to show him one trick or another. Sometimes Peter learns something new along the way and sometimes he just pretends to. Neal knows he should have clued in sooner, but in the end realised he actually doesn't mind being conned. Not by Peter anyway, and not when the motivation is simply to indulge him in his chosen topic. He can't remember the last time anyone has ever done that for him. He can't remember anyone doing that for him ever...

 _That's a lie_ , Neal thinks suddenly. Ellen. Ellen always made time for him. He didn't make it easy for her, he got in trouble - a lot. But Ellen was always the person who'd turn up to get him out of it, just like Peter does now-

"Hey you okay?"

Neal blinks, sees he's standing next to the twin bed in the Burke's guest bedroom, staring down at the pulled back covers like he has no idea what to do next.

"Yeah," he swallows, pushing away memories of his past and trying to remember how he got here, "sorry…I was…" He runs shaking fingers through his hair, trying to hide the trembling, "-thinking."

"Those were some heavy thoughts." With one hand Peter grabs his arm, pushes him down to sit on the bed with the other.

Neal's quietly compliant. Mind too busy trying to separate Peter's words just now from those Kelly Rowland spoke to him on the bridge to attempt any kind of redirect.

"Neal," Neal flinches when Peter pulls the chair over and sits down opposite him, trapping Neal's legs between his knees. "We need to talk."


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Hello again. Another chapter done, only one more to go! It's written, I'm just polishing, so up later this week all being well! It's been fun writing a longer fic - I do like to attempt a plot now and again - but I want you all to know how much I do appreciate the reviews, faves etc... I'm not consistent with posting and I understand how difficult it is to read stories in pieces so really THANK YOU for sticking with it this past year :)

Reaching the top of the stairs Neal pulls away from him, like he's trying to make a grand escape, and ends up on his ass for the effort.

"Damn it, Neal!" Peter curses and quickly makes his way to his side.

The kid's leaning heavily against the wall, looking pale and as sorry and sick as Peter's ever seen him. A pang of guilt hits, but it's overshadowed by the tiredness taking over his entire body, from the ache deep in his bones to the straining weight of his own skin.

He stares down at the kid slumped at his feet, "you going to lie there all day?"

"I'm considering it." Neal answers, sounding more normal than he has a right to all things considered and goes on to make a few sarcastic remarks comparing himself to Satchmo.

He's heard enough, can hear El moving about downstairs, probably locking up and readying to join him in bed. Something Peter's very much looking forward to right now. "Alright, get up."

Peter doesn't wait for Neal to get with the programme. He takes control of the kid same way he always has, figuratively and literally. Dragging his submissive body into the family bathroom down the hall, even though Neal is way past the age where anyone outside of a lover should see him in a state of undress, Peter commits to the act of a parent without forethought. Pants, boxers and t-shirt are removed. The bath is swift and practical, eradicating the smell of hospital, river water and sweat still clinging to his body. Peter dry's and dresses him again with the same fatherly authority, sliding cotton bottoms up and over narrow hips, utilising one of his own tees because Neal owns so few of his own. A few grumbles are all the resistance he receives to the childish manhandling, which compared to how uncooperative Neal can be generally is a relief.

"All set," he announces proudly, mushing his hair for the full affect.

Peter walks the still silent Neal towards the guest bedroom, ready and willing to tuck him in if that's what it takes to ensure his own peace for the night.

"Hey you okay?" He breaks the silence once they reach the bed and Neal shows no sign of getting settled.

Peter watches his face transform, the previously slack and contented expression turns pained, brow furrowing, "yeah," Neal swallows, confusion evident, "sorry…I was…" shaking fingers run through damp bangs, "-thinking."

"Those are some heavy thoughts."

Peter watches his expression change, can see the cogs turning and knows something's going on behind those too blue eyes. Unfortunately, he can only guess at the number of horrific thoughts that might be troubling him. So, unwilling to wait for Neal to make his first independent move of the night, Peter whips back the covers, grabs his arm and pushes him down to sit on the bed.

The time for procrastination has ended. Peter knows he has to do it, no bottling out -

"Neal," he drawls, pulls the arm chair over and sits forward, trapping Neal's knees between his own to prevent any potential escape. Drawing in a deep breath, the words flow out and fill the air with a heavy sense of foreboding. "We need to talk."

"Talk?" Neal rears back, or tries to at least, open gaze dropping to his trapped knees in defeat before rising again to meets his.

"Talk." Peter nods, sounding inexplicably calm. A feat he's insanely proud of right now.

Neal squints at him, "you mean like  _talk_ talk?"

"Yes talk, really talk." Peter growls, closing and rubbing his tired eyes _._

Time may be right for him, but he wonders if it's really right for Neal. Based on his compliance, Peter would have said Neal actually appreciated being taken care of just now, but looking at the pale and fearful face before him, he has a feeling the kid's mind had been a million miles away the entire time and likely has no idea he just let his friend wash and dress him like a baby bedding down for the night.

A hesitant hand suddenly grabs his, making him jump, and pulls the cover from his eyes. "You want to know the truth?"

Neal is looking directly at him, asking a question he already knows the answer to.

"Truth would be nice." Peter agrees with a slow nod, unsure who is comforting who right now but happy to believe it's a little of both.

He sees the hesitancy in his eyes, an unaired conflict which has nothing to do with right or wrong and everything to do with who Neal is and who he needs to be to survive.

…

Dropping his gaze, Neal stares at his lap once again, feeling the heat of Peter's knees where they're pressing against his own. Peter leans forward and dips into his eye line. The message is clear –  _I'm here and I'm not going anywhere._  That assurance does little to ease the butterflies flustering in his stomach, in fact it makes him feel worse. Worse because although he asked and had his query answered he doesn't know if he can tell the truth, not about this. It's too big. Too much to blurt out. Despite the fact Peter knows everything about him, from his shoe size and time he gets up in the morning to the position he sleeps in at night. Despite the cuddles he gets when tears are all he can let out and the careful hands which do for him something he has no memory of his mother or father ever doing when he was the age to truly require it.

"I'm scared." Neal speaks up, abruptly leaning close and resting his chin over Peter's shoulder.

"Of what?"

He can hear the frown in Peter's voice, knows he's freaking him out, but his eyes are red and sore, throat tight and voice tremulous as he says, "everything I thought I knew about Kate was a lie. I don't know how to trust myself again, my judgement is completely screwed up."

"It's not your judgement." Peter pats his back and pulls back, looking him in the eyes with that sad yet sympathetic authoritative expression he has. "You remember what I told you, when you asked me if you'd done any one thing to make me proud?"

"Peter," Neal whines, shaking his head and pulling away.

"Hey now," Peter lets him slip out of his hold, rough fingers stroking down his arms until reaching his elbows, where he clasps on so hard Neal's certain there'll be marks. "Do you remember what I said? About the lying and the stealing?" He hints, tone as forceful as his grip. " _Neal._ "

His name is a command and try as he might, Neal has never been able to ignore it when coming from Peter. "It isn't just about doing one thing. It's everything." He recites tiredly, adding an eye roll for good measure.

" _And_ … you make me proud every day you don't _lie to me, try to trick me or steal_." Peter continues, much more lightly. "Point is, you're still learning. That's what growing up is all about – no matter what age you start doing it."

His smirk should be infuriating. Neal knows he's a child hiding behind the façade of a man, doesn't need it constantly pointing out. As a child he always considered himself the exact opposite. Felt old beyond his years, bearing the pressure of adult responsibilities and anxieties. It was either bow under the pressure or rise to the occasion. Prove his strength, not with his fists or his prowess at asserting dominance like his counterparts, but with his cunning and ingenuity. Neal has always been a clever boy and he's always been desperate for others to see that.

"Every day, huh?" Neal flushes and looks away to hide his smile, trying to pretend hearing the words again, when he doesn't need talking off a ledge, metaphorical or actual, isn't a big deal.

"Every day you  _don't_  do any of those." Peter preens, and points at him, then pretends to do the math. "That probably averages out to only a couple of days a month, giving your penchant for wallet removal."

"I always put them back." Neal shrugs.

"Which is good. But you need to work on not taking what isn't yours in the first place. I'm just pleased you're grown out of the habit of stealing the evidence."

"I only ever did that once. And it was to help the case,"

"Not the point."

"It really did make you cranky." He laughs, they both do.

They slip into a comfortable silence and so Neal plucks up the courage to speak something else that's been on his mind.

"I hate that you need to rescue me all the time."

"You said something like that in the ambulance. You know it's not all the time… sometimes I need you to rescue me."

"Yeah, once." Neal sighs heavily, "and even then, you managed to tell me how to do it."

"Actually twice, if you think about it."

"Keller was a joint effort." Neal sulks. "You practically saved yourself."

"With your help." Peter points out. "But that's not the point. It's not something to be ashamed of… needing help."

"But I don't … relying on people is not what I'm used to."

"Yeah you've said that before too." Peter huffs. Looking like he's debating the worth of what he's about to say. "Neal, the truth is I've always been there to rescue you. Even when you thought of me as the enemy. Believe it or not this isn't the first time I've kept intel about you from the US marshals."

That gets Neal's attention, " _why?_ "

"I didn't want you to get hurt." Peter shrugs, tries to keep a straight face, but fails by breaking out into a sly grin. "Okay, you were mine to catch – not theirs. And I never offered you a deal because although I wanted you safe and off the streets, I also wanted you to face your crimes, see and hear the impact you had on the people you stole from. I didn't just want you in jail, I wanted you to learn."

"I failed at that didn't I?"

"Escaping was a setback." Peter rewords. "Luckily for you, I was put in charge of finding you again. I don't think it's worked out that badly so far."

Neal feels the familiar sensation of tears rising, a too frequent occurrence of late and one he won't miss once all the drugs are fully out of his system.

"Could have been better." Is all he's willing to say to that.

His mind drifts back to Kate, to Alex and the whole music box fiasco, Mozzie in the hospital, Peter forced into the back of van. All these things that happened wouldn't have if Peter had just left his ass in jail. How could he be such an idiot? It hasn't been said yet, but it will, eventually. Not once but twice during this whole mess of an affair Neal has ran away from the people trying to protect him, and why? Because he thought he could do better? Because having people look out for him was what, embarrassing? He just created more mess for others to clean up.

Peter stands up.  _Good_ , he thinks. It's over. They can get back to their lives the way they were before. Where Peter tolerates him and Neal knows to keep his distance, lest he hurts his favourite people more than he already has. But then the impossible happens, instead of turning off the light and leaving the room, Peter drops next to him on the bed. Neal makes space, but as soon as Peter's settled, back leaning against the headboard, he gives into the desire for contact and rolls into him drawn up knees tipping to lie over his friend's outstretched ones.

Neal closes his eyes with a relaxed sigh, he breathes out a heartfelt, "thanks Peter," letting his mind drift, body and soul giving into a peaceful slumber, collapsing boneless against the solid protective presence at his side.

…

" _Peter I'm hurt, did that night mean nothing?"_

With the boys heading upstairs, Elizabeth starts to clear the table, chuckling to herself.

Diana stands from the table and reaches for her coat, "think they'll be okay?"

A bang and prompt  _damn-it Neal!_  filter down from the first floor.

El laughs. "Oh yeah they'll be fine." She sobers. "I think this whole thing has scared Peter more than he'd care to admit."

"And you." Diana points out, smiling.

"All of us." She agrees with a knowing smile of her own. "I'm so used to the two of them together now."

"It does feel like Caffrey's always been around doesn't it?" Diana mulls it over. Then as if realising what she's just said tries to cover by making a swift exit. "I better get going, thanks for the coffee."

"Thank you for the back-up." El sees Diana to the door. "Not sure I'd have managed half of it."

El wishes her a final goodnight, shutting and locking the door behind her. Several minutes are spent clearing away coffee mugs and setting the dishwasher while she waits for Satchmo to come back in from his roam in the garden. Before she realises it half an hour's gone by. Deciding she can look for any presents the dog's left in the morning she quickly finishes locking up and turns off all the lights. Distracted by the familiar smell of her lavender scented bubble bath hanging in the moist warm air, it's not until she's outside the guest bedroom that the voices she could hear as she ascended the stairs register with her.

" _I failed at that didn't I?"_ Neal says and El picks up straight away something is wrong.

Keeping quiet, she stealthily approaches the door, leaning closer to see through the gap. When she catches sight of her husband she automatically rears back, thinking for sure she's over done it on the champagne this weekend. A second look confirms to El she's not seeing things. That really is Peter, sitting up with his legs up on the bed, Neal tucked neatly into his side. One large hand running rhythmically through the still obviously damp curls splayed over his lap. Neither seem the least bit uncomfortable, as if they've shared such intimacy their entire life's. A wave of jealously hits, but is gone just as quickly as it arrived. She recalls the night all this started. Peter aghast at her suggestion he go sit with Neal to help him sleep. Now look at him, lying down with him and soothing him to sleep like it's the most natural thing in the world.

Satisfied he'll be hers as soon as he's not needed here, Elizabeth slowly backs away from the ajar bedroom door as quietly as she had approached. She's in bed reading by the light of her bedside lamp when Peter finally joins her nearly an hour later.

"Mozzie called." She offers as an opener. "I told him Neal is staying with us and to come by tomorrow. I'm not sure where he was exactly but I think I heard Polka music in the background."

Peter nods, muttering a tired  _a-huh_  as he changes into his joggers and climbs into bed.

El watches him settle on his back, face to the ceiling and close his eyes before she asks the question she's being dying to since he came home, "so, do you think Kate conned him from the start? Or was it just happenstance that lead her onto Neal's path?"

Peter rolls his head to the side, squints up at her through one assessing eye.

"Diana and I had time to talk." She smiles confidently.

Peter nods and sighs this time, taking her in his arms. "I don't know. What I do know is he's finally asleep, something both of us have struggled with the last few days and right now I'm just happy that he's safe and isn't getting into any trouble, which means I get to have a full night's sleep, in my own bed, alone with my wife." Peter leans into her, giving her a kiss.

It's at that point Satchmo hears his cue. Having missed them just as much as they've missed each other these past few days apparently, he paws open the bedroom door and jumps up onto the covers, settling himself in the middle of the bed.


	16. Chapter 16

"Hey, it's going to be fine." Peter approaches Neal at his desk. "Don't be nervous."

"I'm not nervous."

Peter shoots him a disbelieving look. He's been watching him squirm in his seat and fuss with just about anything he can get his hands on for the past ten minutes.

"I'm not." Neal glares up at him, but drops eye contact almost immediately, "alright, I'm a little nervous." He fidgets in his seat some more, rummaging through his draws. "Have you seen my rubber-band ball?"

"Why?"

"Because I want it." He snaps lightly, tugging at the knot of his tie.

"No," Peter rolls his eyes, shoves his jacket back, placing both hands on his hips. "Why are you nervous - Hughes isn't going to interrogate you, it's a debriefing. Same as we'd do after any sting where things didn't go as planned."

"Okay two things." Neal stops fussing with his tie momentarily to point at him. "This wasn't a sting and everything went wrong because none of it should have happen in the first place."

"Alright, alright, don't get hysterical." Peter lets Neal's glare slide off him and batting his hand away, takes control of the errant tie himself.

"I'm not hysterical." Neal sulks, dropping his hands to his lap and lifting his chin to allow him access.

Peter says nothing, feeling it's the best policy at the moment. Looping the thin silk material under his friends' upturned collar his eyes are drawn to the graze on Neal's cheek, the one sustained that first night on the bridge. It's now nothing more than a red discolouration to the otherwise pale skin. Soon there'll be no evidence it ever existed. After today, after this meeting, it'll be like none of it ever happened.

As alluring as that sounds, as tempting as it would be to reset the timeline and have them go back to the status quo, Peter is going to fight tooth and nail with himself to ensure that doesn't happen. They've grown closer in this friendship, which is inherently unbalanced but still one of the best relationships he's had outside of his marriage. He's learnt so much about who Neal is these last few days, throwing that all to the wayside for ease of pride would be a travesty.

"Do you know what they'll ask?"

Neal's question is timid, a sure sign that the previous 'status quo' might be further away than he thinks. Peter finishes with the tie and gently pats his chest. The lost expression he receives in return certainly isn't  _lost_  on him.

Long before he caught him, Peter held a theory about Neal's elusive origins. Neal Caffrey maybe his name, but it's not the original. Neal George Caffrey has no birth certificate, no school records, no anything until age eighteen. Then he pops up all over the place, every piece of information opposing the other. Not unlike the man himself – a walking contradiction.

So Peter gave up on collecting facts to build a picture and started to look at his behaviour. What he discovered was not the sociopathic monster he'd once expected, but a child, one who had no concept of right or wrong and showed little understanding of consequence.

That changed things.

His search for Neal became less about catching a criminal, and more about saving a kid from the stupidity of youth. A kid he is still trying to save, only not in a way he ever intended.

"It'll be fine." He tries to sound comforting, but is pretty sure from the scowl he's getting Neal seconds away from making snippy remark and a swift exit. "I'll be there the whole time."

The ' _If you let me_ ' is left unsaid, but Peter knows Neal, and therefore he knows things with Neal are never so simple.

….

"Do you know what they'll ask?" Neal automatically looks away, feeling the all too familiar heat rising in his face, knowing what Peter must think of him.

He twitches when a warm palm cups his cheek, the still bruised but heeling side, and forces him to make eye contact. Deep brown concerned eyes stare back and Neal swallows down the overwhelming urge to cry. Something that -  _Just. Needs. To. Stop._

He had hoped a good night's uninterrupted sleep would be the key, but nothing has changed. Since waking up this morning he's been trying very hard not to think about what a baby he was last night. What's worse is Peter's acting as if all is normal between them. He's only recently got used to the idea Peter considers him a friend, but friend's do not give other friends a bath or dress them or hold them because they're afraid to fall asleep. Neal knows hand on heart he would never let Mozzie do such a thing. What's even more surreal about this whole affair is Peter's the reason he had to shower alongside at least twenty other naked men for four years, with an audience of prison guards taking in every inch of him. Now that same person is probably the only one Neal would willingly give over control to like he did last night. The only person he'd even consider being completely open and vulnerable in front of. Calling him  _Friend_  just doesn't feel like he's doing Peter justice.

"It'll be fine." Peter says in that annoyingly calm and fatherly tone he's taken to using with him more and more recently. "I'll be there the whole time."

Neal wants to tell him that he doesn't need anyone to be there or hold his hand. He's been in more dangerous and challenging situations than this without any backup before and likely will be again. But somehow Peter's mere presence has his resolve crumbling, turning him into the co-dependent child he so often despises but can't seem to help feeling like whenever he's around.

"Hughes scares me." Neal mumbles grumpily, admitting his main problem out loud and feeling like a complete idiot.

Peter laughs at him.  _Great_.

"He scared me too at first, but he's really a teddy bear." It's Neal's turn to give him the  _pull the other one_  glare. "A grisly shouting teddy bear. But a teddy bear all the same."

Neal lets loose a laugh at the image. No doubt as Peter intended.

"Come on," He takes his arm, "sooner we get this over with-"

"Yeah, I get it." Neal falls in place beside him, walking up the stairs and entering the boss's office as if they do this sort of thing every day.

…

"No Jones or Diana?" Peter comments as he walks in to find only Hughes sat behind his desk.

"I'm aware of their involvement in things" Reece says cryptically, "and the last thing I want right now is the three of you talking over each other taking responsibility." He waits a beat, watches the restrained smile touch Burkes lips and knows his message has been received.

"This isn't about blame." Peter translates for Caffrey, who has the dear in the headlights fearful look he often gets when he thinks he's in deep trouble.

Reece muses on that reaction and his next words. While this briefing isn't about placing blame, he does need to tie up loose ends and present a formal report to OPR on his departments conduct over the past week. And since he'd been mostly left out of these decisions-

"Where the hell do I start Peter?"

"Well, I guess I should start with an apology." Burke holds his hand up, Reece indicates he can finish. "I kept you in the dark."

"You did."

"And I'm sorry."

"That it?"

"Pretty much." Burke nods.

Reece laughs. That's why he likes him, short and to the point. No excuses. Caffrey on the other hand, his gaze automatically turning on the young man standing hunched at Burke's side, trying to make himself as small as possible in an effort to be overlooked.

"I'm sorry too sir."

Reece blinks, not what he expected.

"I appreciate that son, but honestly, from what I understand so far. You have nothing to be sorry for." Adding warningly, " _this time_."

"But-"

"Neal." Peter warns.

"I-"

" _Neal_." Said with more bite this time.

"Okay, take a seat gentleman." Reece internally chuckles at Caffrey's hesitation and uncharacteristic nervousness. Seeing a less cocky side of the kid Burke's practically adopted is a refreshing change. "Let's go over exactly what happened. Peter, start from the morning we got the first call from the marshals."

And so, the debriefing begins. Burke talks in detached terms about the whole affair, while Caffrey clams up, declaring few real memories. Reece senses only part of that is true, but doesn't push him – much. Only the parts where it's important to get the full picture. Like now.

"Hold up." Reece sits forward, assesses the state of both of them.

"Dickerson searched your house, but you'd sent Caffrey away to a pre-arranged meeting point?"

"I knew if they found him there he'd be taken straight to Rikers and I needed Neal to build the case. Jones and Diana had-"

"No part of it, yes, you told me that after this one was taken to the hospital." Reece points a finger at Neal. "What I need to know to present to OPR is how Caffrey then ended up tied to a groyne in the East River."

His tone gets louder and sterner. Peter is unfazed, but when both older men turn their gazes on the youngest in the room, Neal visibly shrinks in on himself. Reece watches in fascination, a Caffrey without an answer is a strange occurrence, but he's willing to wait him out. Then Burke's hand slowly reaches out, covers Neal's clasped ones in his lap. Eye contact is made and whatever message is passed he'll likely never know, but it gets the kid talking.

"I felt it best to meet with Kelly on my own."

"Kelly Rowland sir, our lead suspect at the time."

"I know who she is." Reece indicates for Neal to continue.

"Well I was certain I could get her to meet with me and my plan really did involve Peter catching up with us, I was going to text him as soon as she arrived, but…"

"But?"

"She wasn't working alone. I got grabbed from behind, they injected me with something. Next thing I know I'm waking up in the water, tied up."

"Why alone? Why not include any of your colleagues?" He used the word colleagues to draw a reaction and by god he got one, in the form of a hitched breath and quickly averted gaze. Peter was right, the boy really isn't himself yet.

"Kelly came after me, sir. It was my mess to clean up."

"You assumed this Rowland woman had some revenge plan, when the reality was she's a consummate drug user, herself being manipulated by a criminal with a bigger agenda than your love life."

"That's about the size of it, sir."

"It was a stupid decision."

"Yes sir."

"The only reason I'm not considering withdrawing your place with us here Mr Caffrey is because the medical report supports Peter's assentation that the drug cocktail you'd been unwittingly given seriously impaired your judgement."

"I haven't felt quite myself, sir."

"Good, now we've got that cleared up, I don't meet with OPR until Wednesday, so I suggest you two take a couple of days off." Reece looks them over. "You both look like crap. I assume you've got a plan to occupy our boy here for at least that long? I don't need any more messes to clean up before I've cleaned this one."

"Thank you, sir." Burke stands, grabs Neal by the arm encouraging him to do the same. "I've got it all planned. I promise you, Neal will not be leaving my sight."

Reece considers how that might work, but then thinks he probably doesn't want to know. "Go on, your free to go."

Neal bolts out the door like his ass is on fire, leaving Peter to stare after him.

"He really doing okay?"

Burke sighs, gaze watching, prepared to act should the kid continue his run through the office and out the doors. Luckily the young man comes to a stop and drops to sit at his desk.

"He's not used to being so dependent on someone." He relaxes a modicum.

Reece sees that. He also sees how much Peter cares.

He pulls an envelope out of his desk draw. "Marshal Dickerson left this for you. Strict instructions to hand it to you personally."

Peter hides his surprise well, but Hughes isn't the ASAC for nothing. He clocks the slight raise of his brow and twitch in his left eye. He takes it with a thanks and a smile. Reece knows better than to ask. He trusts Peter. If he needs to know, he will. Until then they'll go back to the status-quo.

"Look after him, I'm sure he'll be back to his cheeky and bothersome self in no time."

Peter smiles. "I never thought I'd look forward to that."

Reece watches Peter jog down the stairs, gathering the kid up and heading out the door. It's a strange relationship they share. He'd warned Peter right at the beginning when he first requested Caffrey's deal. This wasn't any ordinary C.I relationship and Caffrey had proven him right. Though unlike that first meeting, despite all the trouble, Caffrey – Neal, has brought out another side to Peter Burke that is a pleasant surprise to see. Whether that's a good thing in the long run remains to be seen, but so far being together has done them both good. If Peter's willing to see it through, then Reece is too.

…

The air outside is frosty. Another flurry of snow fell overnight and the sidewalks are covered in a grey slush which is hard to avoid what with all the holiday shoppers filling the streets. He hadn't given much thought to the time of year, had likely actively been trying to avoid it. Now things are settling down, the reality of things getting back to normal in sight, Neal can't help but think about it. Sentenced in February 2005 and four consecutive Christmas' since spent in prison, this would be his first without the hope of ever being with Kate. His first on the outside. The reminder of how close he came to making it a fifth consecutive Christmas on C block isn't worth thinking about.

"I guess I made quite a scene the other day, huh?" Neal breaks the silence consuming the car as Peter navigates the slow holiday traffic.

"You've made a few scenes recently, might want to narrow it down." Peter's response is firm and crass and exactly what Neal should have expected.

"I mean in the hospital… when ... I woke up." Neal silently begs him not to make him spell it out.

He risks a glance upward, feels his cheeks warming naturally and despite starting it prays for a swift end to this conversation.

"You passed out in the ambulance," Peter keeps his gaze on the road as he speaks for a change, a move for which Neal is grateful. "They kept telling me you were okay. It was just exhaustion, but then you woke up, you were inconsolable. I had no idea what to do...I-"

"I think I was dreaming." Neal interrupts, not really thinking about what he's saying just knowing he needs to say something because it's gnawing at him and Neal knows he won't be able to truly relax until he resolves whatever  _it_  is. "It felt so real, I think it was. Something that really happened to me."

There's a flash of something in Peter's eyes, something Neal can't quite pinpoint.

"When you were a kid?" Peter pauses, waits for Neal's confirmation nod before clarifying further, "a little kid by chance?"

"Why?"

Peter slumps in his seat, looking unsure all of a sudden. "When you woke up... you seemed very…  _young_."

"Young?" Neal repeats, confusion clear in his tone.

"Like  _really_ young. You said you wanted to go home." He continues nervously. "And before that, in the ambulance you said something else…"

"What?" Neal breathes out, barely daring to speak now himself, scared of what he might have said that he doesn't remember.

"Neal," Peter speaks nervously, looking conflicted and anxious and apologetic all at once. Then his back straightens, voice hardens and a question Neal never wanted asking is released into the air, "Did you run away from home?"

Tears spring unbidden to his eyes. Neal swipes them away fiercely, each and every one, not willing to let any of the unwanted moisture taint his cheeks. He tries to keep his hands from undoing the seatbelt, resists the urge to fling open the door and make his escape. They're barely moving, it wouldn't even require much more than a jog to stay on his feet, keep his dignity intact and his suit clean. Suddenly the car is no longer a warm barrier from the snowy weather outside, it's cold and dark, a metal cage closing in and threatening to swallow him whole…

_Neal was three when the marshals took him away the first time. He had been playing at a neighbour's house – or so his aunt Ellen had said when telling him the story many years later after having yet another nightmare about it– when the marshals knocked on the door. Neal heard the pounding all the way upstairs. He'd been playing dress up in the closet, unbeknownst to Marleen, his mother's then best friend. Two men pushed Marleen aside and approached him on the landing where he'd been looking down watching the commotion. One took him by the arm, dragging him down the stairs and out the door without a word. He was three and apparently to them that meant he'd never understand so what was the point in saying anything. They all but threw him in the back of a van. Had he been older, had a chance to hone his skills a little there's no way Neal would have let himself be taken. But he wasn't older, he was little and scared and the adults put in charge of his safety had no sympathy for a cop killers' son._

_A marshal sat in the back of the van with him, watching him from the corner. They drove for what felt like hours, but had probably been less than ten minutes, a few blocks over to the diner where his mom was at work. She was the next person he saw enter the van and the sight sent such a feeling of relief through him that it he burst into tears, the first visible emotional reaction since hearing the bangs on the door._

_She hugged him close and told him everything was going to be okay. She promised. But then it wasn't, it wasn't okay. The next time the van stopped everyone got out, his mom and the marshals. They told him to wait. They left him all alone in the van and shut the doors while they went outside. Neal had no idea what was happening still. He wanted to believe his mom, he did… but he needed to speak to his dad._

_He never got the chance._

_At some point everyone came back, Neal doesn't know when because he fell asleep, tears dried on his flushed cheeks. When he woke up his Aunt Ellen was watching him. He was lying on a sofa, in a house he didn't recognise. Feeling the tears rise again he ran to Ellen and hugged her tight, begging her to take him home. He wanted his toys and his bed and everything that made home, home. She explained she couldn't and she was sorry. Neal could hear his mother crying and tried to go to her, but Ellen held him back. He never understood why._

_That was his life for the next few years, hearing his mother's cries, but unable to go to her, to make her feel better. Everyday his dad didn't join them was another day he tried to hold out hope that it wouldn't be much longer. Then finally, he worked up the courage to ask where his dad was. And his mother told him._

_He was five when he finally learnt his dad was never coming back, that his dad had died. Suddenly the tears and cries made sense. He felt a little stupid for not working it out sooner, he knew his dad wouldn't have stayed away so long if he could have come with them. So, five-year old Neal sucked it up and got on with things. His mom was often the opposite, but that was okay. By seven he'd learnt to cook his own spaghetti out of the tin and could find his own way to school after making his own bus pass. Ellen called it a forgery but Neal didn't know what that word meant. He'd copied the other bus passes exactly, so assumed since she wasn't mad that it was a good thing._

_Things just went on from there. At nine he learnt how to play pool and won enough money to buy some decent art supplies, his favourite subject at school. His mom didn't cry so much anymore but she never really got out of bed and when she did she rarely spoke to him so she never noticed the brand-new easel he brought home on his twelfth birthday. When Neal graduated middle school, things started to change. His mom got a job and although she was around just as much as she was before, going to bed before 7pm, up and out before 6am, she did try and spend time with him. Unfortunately, by then Neal had already learnt the art of self-sufficiency. He didn't know how to talk to her, so he carried on as he always had. Despite his extra-curricular activities, he wanted to follow in his dad's footsteps and join the police force. He'd gotten pretty good at handling guns thanks to the guys down at the pool hall, those who didn't want to have to explain to their wives and girlfriends to whom they'd lost their money, so instead he claimed his prize down at the shooting range._

_Ellen went mad when he told her what he'd done, but she promised not to tell his mom if he dropped the whole idea. Neal was confused, he thought Ellen would have been happy, having been a cop herself, but then put it down to her worrying about his safety. So, they agreed to disagree. Ellen never did tell his mom about the pool hall._

_Then he turned eighteen. And his life was turned upside down for the second time. He left the house that day in a hurry. Didn't pack a thing. Mainly because he hadn't planned on going anywhere, it was only when he found himself at Gateway train station, standing on the platform for the Amtrak to Chicago that he realised how easy it would be to disappear. He knew how to evade the conductor so a ticket wasn't an issue, and he could always get money. Stepping closer to the open door of the carriage Neal gave a wishful thought to the stash of cash under his mattress. He hadn't even grabbed his rucksack, with all his I. D's and art supplies inside. Whistle blown he was out of time. It was now or never-_

_The train pulled out of the station at three minutes past four on the 21_ _st_ _of March 2002. Unbeknownst to the young man formally known as Danny Brooks, by the time he arrived in New York later the next day and used his charm to con his way into a fifth avenue hotel room, his mother and Ellen were once again getting into the back of a none descript panel van, both in tears, both with nothing but the clothes on their backs and already mourning the loss of one very special little boy..._

_._

"Hey, hey stop." Peter commands, one hand holding onto the steering wheel, reaching out with other, grabbing his wrists tight. "Stop."

They've pulled over by the time Neal does start to calm, eyes closed taking several deep breaths. He waits for the panicky thumping inside his chest to resume something closer to a normal rhythm before opening his eyes and looking over at Peter.

"Neal, I need you to listen to me, to know something." Peter loosens his hold but doesn't break away. "I know you have a thing about being totally independent and I know the anklet makes that very hard to do. I also know these past couple of days have been your worst nightmare as far as that goes. But-" Peter pauses, licks his lips looking like he may change his mind about this whole keeping an eye on him thing. "Seeing you on the bridge - more than once – I've come to realise…" he sighs, Neal hears it and feels it. "I would miss you Neal."

Neal lets the words sink in, clocks the silence threatening to swallow the car. "It's not that I don't want to tell you."

"I know," Peter taps his clasps hands, finally letting go. "Look, I know there's a whole important part of your life I'm missing here that would explain why the hell you left Mozzie like you did to solve this on your own. But that's because I wasn't in it, so when you are ready to tell me... just know I'll be here to listen."

"And make notes."

"That to." Peter grins, setting both hands on the wheel and pulling out into traffic, resuming their journey to Brooklyn. "But only for my own personal Caffrey box, which by the way is hidden in a completely different place. I challenge you to find it."

"Really?" Neal laughs dryly.

"No," Peter immediately retracts his statement. "Leave it alone, don't even think about looking for it."

Neal nods and smiles. Peter knows he's hiding something and that's okay… because he is. But this is something he has the right to hide. He's been down this road before, thought about looking, finding the truth for himself, but Ellen always said the danger was too great. If he told Peter, Peter wouldn't be able to help himself, he'd have to look and then Neal wouldn't be able to help  _himself_. He'd want to let him.

One day it might be the right time, under the right set of circumstance  _one day_  he would be able to tell Peter as much as he knows and together they could maybe discover the rest. Until then, knowing he has that safety net, unconditionally, it's a gift he'll treasure forever.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to everyone who has commented and left kudos - shamefully brilliant motivation - I hope you've enjoyed reading. Left a few bits open ended - but that's on purpose, a short follow up planned for a sappy Christmas fic - I love fluff ;-P  
> TTFN


End file.
